


Night Sky

by wintersnight



Series: Fracture Verse and other things [7]
Category: Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Damian is of age, M/M, robinpile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: Someone finally turns eighteen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, a babe asked me to move Destroyed out of the fic pile, which in turn, reminded me of the larger, ah, project. To have a collection with all the crazy drabs and aus and what-ifs from the Fracture Verse in one place. The one closest to where I imagine Fracture ending is going to be this time skip until Dami gets his shot at a certain former Robin. So, here's a nice place for all those works, too.

And it's of course rote: Gotham always has protectors. Even if it isn't the Bat, some of his team is patrolling the city to cause trouble in the murky depths of the underbelly.

When it's the Birds of Prey, well, there must be some momentous occasion. And that…is Damaian's eighteenth birthday.

The kid, in late from patrol the night before, rose at eleven to a special breakfast made by Alfred, and all the Bats in attendance to share the day with him. Even after years in the family, part of the whole, he seemed surprised and pleased when even Cass, Steph, and O were crowded around the table with Jay, Dick, Tim, and B.

"It is simply another day," the kid had tried to protest while Alfred laid a plate of his favorites in front of him along with his morning tea rather than the coffee he normally drank. "Thank-you, Pennyworth."

"Demon Brat," Jay cuts in with a grin, "you're 18th is important. Means you're a legal little shit now, you know. Bat-Dad doesn't have that much of a leash on you anymore."

"My age does directly affect my duties."

"No, but the law recognizes you as an adult now," Tim shrugs. "Eighteen is a big deal, Dami, worth celebrating. Congratulations."

"Well, that and the fact you lived this long. No one's killed you again." Steph cuts in with a grin.

"-tt-" his normal but the kid is grinning at the table full. "Then since you all seem to emphasize it, I will keep complaints to myself _this_ time."

And through eating, the usual banter runs through the crowd of siblings, Dick telling terrible jokes (making Dami say _asparagus_ because, wow, hilarious), Jay making innuendos about being 'an adult' with a knowing leer, Steph right on the bandwagon with him, offering to give Baby Bat a lesson in what women like and Cass almost choking on her eggs. Tim just facepalming while he laughs because, _these guys_, and B sympathetically patting his son's shoulder but doing nothing to dissuade the teasing.

"No, seriously, Dami," Jay is almost crying by now, "I know a girl, totally clean, regular check-ups, she'd treat you right!"

Dick is feverently trying to breathe, but he’s _dying_.

"If it wouldn’t irritate Pennyworth, I would just stab you in the larynx," Damian finally deadpans not looking at anyone but his cheeks are a little rosy.

But since Dami has been at ease in the family for years, no one takes him seriously. Instead, the catcalls around the table just make it all the more sweeter.

**

The part at WE is one of those terribly snooty affairs no one but Dick realistically enjoys (since his game is so definitely _on_ during these things) when the upper echelons of Gotham come out to drink the best booze, eat the more exotic h’orderves, and try to do business with the Wayne family. All of them have been subjected to more than one proposition during galas (Tim, unknown by the rest of the family, has been hit on the most, even more than Dick. Partially because he's a powerhouse in a small package and apparently assumed to be the power bottom _of the year_. Just, that _ass_).

Damian's 18th party seems to follow the same conventions. Keeping with their running tally, Dick has ducked away from three half-drunk socialites offering the best orgy of his life (two _hot_ vigilantes, sweethearts, you couldn't hold _a candle_) only to be subjected to his charming smile and denial as it's his little brother's birthday.

Bruce has 'accidentally' spilled his scotch all over the swingers making the usual innuendos, and Dami's arched eyebrow stops a rich associate’s daughter mid-way through an offer when he conveys with that eyebrow alone how much he hopes the this is an elaborate _joke_.

The topper of the night, however, is when the Waynes meander closer to their cornered fourth, drawn by the absolute repulsion the normally calm, cool, and collected CEO's face.

Damian gets within reach first, just in time to hear-

"-really, Tim, the things I could do to you. That body. I could fuck you so good, make you _beg_ for it. God, I'd make you suck me dry, tell you how pretty you are, how good you are for me-"

The moment Damian is ready to literally tear the pervert away, Tim's smile becomes cutting, sinister in a way that usually makes the younger man's blood run cold (and more recently, _hot_ in the same instance).

Tim steps up to the business man and talks low, lower than Damian and the approaching Dick can hear. But whatever he says has the appropriate effect as the man turns an alarming shade of pale before he stumbles over his own feet to _escape_. Tim is just smirking darkly, arms crossed over his chest.

The CEO gives a wave to his brothers and ducks around a pillar to return to the bar for another glass of champagne.

**

In another hour, the party is winding down and the Wayne family has gravitated toward the long staircase.

"Please tell me we can leave," Damian mutters under the charming smile still on his face for onlookers.

Bruce hums, "another hour, then we'll be in the clear."

"Timmy must have gotten lost," Dick breathes out with a laugh, "haven't seen him in a while."

"Working," Bruce and Dami say in the same instance and then look at one another. This time the grin between father and son is genuine.

"I am in need of a break; I will check his office." With a wave, he moves around the main blocks of partygoers, still taking time here and there to accept well wishes from Gotham's elite before reaching the elevators (where he can actually breathe and massage the bridge of his nose in the attempt to fight off an impending migraine. What he wouldn't give to be out with Jason on patrol tonight).

Tim's office is locked on the first try, but Damian is a Bat. A few seconds and he has the door open, sliding inside.

Smiling faintly from the large window, Tim just shakes his head a little.

"Not bad. Maybe we'll do a blindfolded night for shits and giggles, huh?"

A smile quirks at that but Dami just crosses the room at an easy pace, coming to stand at Tim's side (just like when they're masked on a ledge looking down as the city sleeps) to peer out at the night.

"I may have too much enjoyment with that," the youngest of the Bat clan admits.

"Just like the rest of us. It's all about the challenge." Tim tips his flute before taking a drink.

The laugh rumbles from his chest as he realizes the complete truth in that statement. Father, Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie, Cassandra, Barbara, and even Alfred—all of them up for the next trial, the next in line. "More true than most believe, I would say." He glances over at the shorter man with an arched brow, "I had almost convinced myself you stole away to patrol for the night."

And the minute change in posture, something only one who has studied the book that is Tim Drake, is telling. Damian's eyes narrow as he turns to face the older man fully, reaching out to take the flute, bringing it to his nose.

"Apple juice," the younger sighs because _of course_.

"I'm going," Tim insists, tossing his head over to the seemingly innocent private washroom. "It's your big night, Baby Bat. You and B and Dick should be enjoying it—"

But the younger already has a hold of Tim's wrist, pulling him along to the washroom and closing the door behind them.

"As if a party of insufferable, selfish perverts that care nothing for me is worth it," Damian deadpans, touching the far wall with the correct pattern, setting his palm above the paper towel dispenser. A small noise and the wall moves silently, seamlessly to the hidden room inside.

Dami gives another tug of Tim's wrist, leading him toward the gurney as the lights flash on automatically and the door slides silently closed, hiding the room again. The mini Bat bunker is usually stocked with medical supplies and food for the occasional injury or emergency stop over while in Gotham proper. The back elevator down to the private garage is just another benefit to the layout.

Tim obligingly shrugs out of his suit jacket without a twinge (as he, like B, is optimal in hiding injuries), and the crisp shirt beneath is fairly saturated with blood at the right shoulder.

Turning, the younger man tisks sharply, obviously angry.

The elder simply waves a hand in dismissal.

Gloves and a pack of medical grade thread, Dami takes a quick moment to text Father and Grayson, let them know they will not be back down for some time and give the appropriate excuses.

Grayson, ever the worry wort (even after he and Todd have parted ways on amicable terms with Drake) and elder brother, immediately demands to know everything. It would serve Drake right if he took a photo and sent it just to see the oldest son come crashing through the door to be the mother hen of the Bat sons and berate Drake for his lack of communication. However, a look at the concealer under Tim’s eyes tells him the usual sleep deprivation could have multiple implications; the excess stress would not be necessary, possibly detrimental. Drake could take off.

A simple, _checking in with patrol, Grayson, calm down,_ is sufficient.

However, as Damian helps peel off the shirt and tank underneath, he tisks again at the blood and broken stitches, wondering if he should call Grayson or Father after all.

"Not bad," Tim reassures after seeing the expression on Dami's face. "I can do it myself, Dami."

Sighing, that green gazes fixes on him. "This is more than a glass of juice will help, Tim."

"So I'll drink another," and the teasing, lightness has been hard won for them both throughout the years, once Damian and the others truly realized the depths of this man, and understood his separation from the family had never been of his own choosing. Four years ago, they had come too close to losing him, driving him out of the family, ignoring his futile attempts to fight for a place. If they had failed… Damian refuses to consider the possibilities and what if's.

Still, Tim has his own agenda, his own team, his own demons to face, but the other Bats have had a part in his life, refusing to repeat old mistakes.

Dami sighs unhappily.

"Okay, okay," Tim finally gives. "You stitch me back up and I will sleep eight hours. I swear."

"You must sleep eight hours and consume over seven hundred calories tomorrow. Not including coffee or sweets," Dami bargains shrewdly.

But Tim's eyes are narrow, calculating. "Five hundred and coffee totally counts. Plus, _eight whole hours_."

And in his head, Dami goes to a whole different place with the implications. Since he's been _wanting_ for longer than he can realistically remember. Even when they were at each other's throats, he felt something more than disdain for the older man, always determined to force Drake to recognize him—as a Bat, a Robin, a member of the family. To recognize he had _worth_, had a _place_.

Later, even before Grayson and Todd began their unsubtle seduction, he realized the feelings for this man were more…complex than he initially anticipated. Watching the liquid grace of Drake's moves walking, running, fighting, flying, and everything in between made him warm, made him appreciate absently, unconsciously. The feelings faded when he found out Todd and Grayson succeeded in their seductions, but did not completely leave him. No, he was…satisfied the two took care of Drake as the man obviously needed a keeper for the sake of his own health (since The Titans have proven less than successful, _-tt-_).

Now, however, Damian is an appropriate age (finally) in this culture, and Tim is not attached, or so he assumes.

The numbing spray at work, Damian carefully threads the needle, stepping close, in between Tim's thighs, his own hips spreading them (that though gives him a noticeable pause, makes Tim raise a brow at him).

As gently as possible, he guides the needle through the torn and broken skin in his own parody of Pennyworth's masterful stitches, remembering to tie each knot close to the skin for added strength, eyes narrow on his work. He makes certain it is done well as the first set have been unsuccessful.

"It's fine, you know, but I still appreciate it." Tim interjects with that small half-smile, the genuine one when he means something.

Dami hums a little, his own smile a bit more sharp, but no less sincere, "this is the nature of family as you once told me, yes?"

"Uh, yeah." Now a light pink hints his cheeks and the older man chuffs a laugh. "We take care of our own."

One of Dami's brows hikes up, "Drake. Honestly. You barely allow your body what it must have to function. Of all the Bats, you are simply the _worst_ at caring for yourself."

And as the younger man expected, Tim just chuffs a laugh, "yeah, yeah. I need a keeper. Don't you say that enough? Still here, aren't I?"

"Only because God favors the ill and mentally infirm." Dami hums back at him, eyes sliding from his work to Tim's softly smiling face, the overly fond look that is rare and yet…gives the youngest Bat pause, leaves him staring as the expression is directed at him.

'_Such a complicated mixture of strength and weakness… I would give too much to test these boundaries._'

Tim's mouth moves and Dami blinks, realizes his name is being spoken while he was staring at the slightly pink lines and textures of those lips. The hand on his bicep is not demanding nor uncomfortable.

"Dami, what is it?"

And those eyes, a deeper blue than his own and Father's, than Todd's or Grayson's. He blinks again, remembering what he should be doing.

"I…am of legal age, Tim. Apparently as of several hours ago." And his gaze is focused on the final few, hands moving more easily than when he begun.

Fingers on his jaw turn his gaze back to those eyes. "Again, congrats. Want to tell me where your thought are at?"

And, Damian's eyes slide back to the next stitch while he considers his thoughts.

"It's okay to tell me," Tim inserts quietly into his musing.

"You are one of the few people I trust explicitly, Tim. You are already aware." And the last one done. Damian snips the thread carefully after the knot. Some of Pennyworth's special healing concoction, and Damian tapes a gauze pad then winds a bandage for extra protection.

He lifts his forearm, presses the bare skin against Tim's forehead to gauge his temperature as the older man's lack of immunities are always a cause for concern.

Tim merely laughs again but tolerates the care.

"You're deflecting."

"Merely gathering my thoughts."

"Ah." And that easy smile again.

"Let me test the waters so to speak."

"Sure," while Dami removes the gloves and begins the clean-up.

"When you, Todd, and Grayson agreed to part ways, was it truly amicable?"

And Tim blinks since this is not where he expected to go. He, Jay, and Dick made one hell of an effort to keep everything professional, brotherly around Dami, B, and Alfred.

"The truth," Dami clarifies, "I will hold your confidence."

And a pause long enough for the youngest Bat to dig around in the medicinal cupboard for antibiotics, open the mini fridge for that deplorable Zesti.

"It was amicable," Tim finally replies softly, the tone belaying his conviction.

Dami drops the pills in his hand. "I do not believe you."

Tim sighs a little before he takes the pills, swallows them with the Zesti. "They did, Dami. That's what mattered at the time."

And…Dami’s eyes close briefly as he now he understands what had happened. Obviously, he should not have asked for the truth outright. "Tim…"

"They're in love with each other." Tim clarifies. "A third makes things more difficult than it needs to be for them. I understand that and I'm the one that called it off."

Dami reaches out, grips Tim's wrist in one hand, but that terrible smile— one of Tim's many masks— doesn't even flinch. The pulse under Dami's fingers is steady, a little hard.

"You did not wish to," and now the possibilities start changing.

"At the time, no, I didn't." And admitting it is hard for Tim, something pulled out. Dami's grip tightens slightly as he boosts himself up beside the older man to listen, the outside of their thighs pressing together.

"But…it's better now. I've had time to adjust, to move forward." He shrugs with his good shoulder. "I'm happy knowing they're happy."

"It's only been a few months, Tim," Dami counters gently.

"Yeah."

"I am…_sorry_ to dredge it up."

"It's okay. They don't know. I didn't want to put my hang-ups on them. They…this is the right call, Dami."

Dami's hand slides down a little so he can thread his fingers in Tim's. "If they asked for you back-"

"No," immediately as though Tim has already considered it. "No. Not again. I _can't_… No."

Dami nods a little now, his thumb making circles, relaying support, comfort in his own way, without words.

"There's a reason you're asking." Tim points out shrewdly. "Dick—?"

"No," Dami assures immediately. "Not for years. A fascination perhaps once puberty began. I soon realized he was too much my brother to maintain a romantic interest."

Tim nods, doesn't pull his hand away. "Then Jay—"

"You," He interrupts again to halt this useless inquiry. "For the last several years, Tim. _You_."

The older man sucks in a surprised breath and truly, it is an achievement to be able to shock Tim Drake that Dami is momentarily pleased with himself.

"Me?" A little breathless, tentative.

Dami hums a little, eyes drawn to their hands, thumbs moving. "Yes. While Grayson and Todd took care of you, I was satisfied. There was no need to make my…_interest_ known. I was also not an age deemed appropriate by this culture, and you would have immediately disregarded any amorous attempts on my part." And he looks up, finds Tim watching him intently.

Damian can see the thoughts turning, the detective.

"Do not feel indebted because I have told you this. It is not necessary you return the sentiment, Tim."

"Do me a favor," Tim draws out passively. "Stop talking."

Damian closes his mouth and blinks because Tim's hand releases his fingers, moves to the back of his neck. But it's Damian that leans in across the space and presses their lips together.

And Tim's mouth is soft, pliant, and willing; his lips part when the right angle presents itself and _taste, wet, perfect_ come to the forefront of his mind. It's slow and easy at first since one of them is injured and the other uncertain of his boundaries (this is different, much different than any of his previous experience perhaps because it is with an older, _knowledgeable_ man or perhaps because this moment has been a fantasy for too long).

Damian waits for Tim to lead, to allow more when their tongues tangle, and soft noises are captured, swallowed, echoed.

When they inevitably part, both men are trying to catch their breath, heat and want mirrored in blue eyes.

"Damn, Baby Bat," Tim's voice hoarse and edged with something deep and dark, different than Red Robin in fight mode- no, this tone produces a completely different type of shudder.

"It would be wise," and his tone is no better, "of you to let me see you home, Tim. You are _injured_ after all."

A soft laugh from the older Bat, "That I am. It hurts oh so much. I might need a nurse or some shit, right?"

A smile cuts of Damian's face since they are exactly on the same page, "I would think so since, as I have pointed out before, how terrible you are at caring for yourself."

Tim hums a little, his expression soft and more open than the younger man can remember. But when he speaks, there is a wealth in his tone, warning, "takes someone with a lot of patience to put up with my shenanigans, Dami."

And the younger Bat reads into it _run while you can_. The smile that cuts across his face, the same one when he easily picked the lock to the office, reads _challenge accepted_.

"—tt—. As if I have not done so for years. Honestly, Tim." And he slides off the table to stand, turns so he is parting Tim’s thighs with his hips again, looking slightly down. His thumb traces gently over Tim’s slightly swollen bottom lip, his gaze inexplicably drawn there.

A soft breath and Tim opens, takes the digit in his mouth, eyes never leaving him while he _sucks_ and a shudder, a stab of _heat_ goes through Damian in a burst of lust.

“Tim…” and he can’t help himself, not with those eyes half-mast and starting to warm, to seduce.

Sharp edge of teeth against his thumb before Tim lets him go.

“I’m not going to make it _easy_ on you, Dami,” Tim slides off the gurney, forcing the younger back a step, and his breath catches, imagining that look on Tim’s face while they’re bare, pressing against one another—

Both hands framing that face, holding him still when Damian lowers his head to bring them together again. This time, he cannot be _careful_ and _tentative_. No, he simply cannot.

His hand sliding down to curl around Tim’s waist, pulling him closer so they’re pressed together, is lost in the heat, the nips, the playful suck at his bottom lip, at the change in angle, of the beat of his pulse.

Tim has a hand at the back of his neck, the grip tight and that strength alone is enough for Damian to pant.

“I take it,” against that _mouth_, “you have similar feelings for me?”

“You were too young for me to bring it up,” is the only answer he’s going to get, but that in itself is answer enough. Enough to make him want to lift Tim back on the gurney and strip him down, to reveal the flesh for his exploration, for his _pleasure_. Enough to make him delve back into the perfection of the kiss. Enough to roll up hips against Tim’s and find they are _both_ aroused because of _this_.

“We could,” muttered between kisses while Dami’s hand slides down to palm the side of Tim’s throat, “the Perch.”

“Mm. So none of them will walk in on us?”

“Exactly.”

“Excellent plan as I take is as a personal _challenge_ to make you keen, Tim.”

“Fuck, dirty talker, Baby Bat?”

“You shall have to wait and see,” Damian already has Tim’s wrist in hand, pulling him to the back stairs where undercover cars waited.

“…honestly, can’t wait,” is the truth as he follows the taller Bat, already loosening his tie without a hitch.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim/Age Appropriate Dami. Be warned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graywhims asked for a continuation on Tumblr and it took a while, but I had to comply. The end went in a crazy direction I didn't really consider when I started it but meh. We'll see what happens maybe. Ah, yeah, this is explicit. No like, no read.

And it isn’t the first time he’s ridden behind Dami on a Ducati. It _is_ the first time he hasn’t bitched about it.

Like all the Bats, Dami pilots the damn thing _smoothly_, weaving through traffic, balancing the bike effortlessly even though they’re still in their secret identity wear, but based on where they were fifteen minutes ago, Tim can’t work up the effort to berate Baby Bat. Nope, not when he’d pretty much deflected Dick’s mother-hen sixth sense with a short and sweet,

“_Grayson_, I have him.”

Silence on the line for a full sixty seconds while they took the back elevator down to the hidden garage, and Dami’s hand felt hot, pressed against the small of his back just far enough for the fingers to curl slightly over his hip.

Then Dick said something low and Dami just laughs a little in the phone before hanging up as the doors slid open and he chose the red and black Ducati (the R decal in the hidden compartment under the seat). Helmets and they’re _gone_.

The bikes gives a jump under Tim’s thighs and he moves instinctively with it when they dive down in the hidden passage, taking them into the depths of the Perch’s underground bunker.

When the bike comes to a halt, both vigilantes automatically moving with the side slide to put the thing right beside the Red Robin bike still parked and waiting for patrol; Tim doesn’t give it a second glance as the helmet comes off and he stands with the bike still between his legs.

Dami already has his helmet off, looking up with those fucking _eyes_ just—_damn_.

His breath rushes out when Dami’s lips curves in a smile, a soft, genuine smile. It makes his features softer, the harsh lines easing with something _real_. No masks. Tim leans down by some crazy kind of instinct and his hands takes up a spot twining in the back of Dami’s hair while he presses his open mouth against the younger man’s. The slight pain in his shoulder is not immediate, not insistent, so he’s fine to make this _good_.

And, damn, it is without even _trying_.

Dami has a hand on his jaw, leaning back enough that he can slide his tongue past Tim’s lips, wrap around his, work into the kiss, make noises in Tim’s mouth—

_Fuck_.

Tim draws back enough to see Dami’s eyes, to catch the heat before he smirks, something evil and dirty. He dismounts the bike, straightens in a powerful, sensual move, back up slowly to the stairs while holding Damian’s crystal gaze. He give no shits peeling his jacket off and throwing it without care, drawing off the tie slower.

“Baby Bat,” his voice dark and _deep_, “time to make me keen, remember?”

And with an invitation like that?

Dami has the bike on the kick stand and is following, watching the buttons on Tim’s shirt pop one by one while the older vigilante takes the steps backwards effortlessly. His own jacket drops off his shoulders while his eyes devour the motion of dexterous hands, his tie discarded, half the buttons on his shirt undone by the time they reach the landing. It’s a struggle for him not to lunge when Tim’s smirk becomes wicked, calculating.

“Lights, 15%,” gives them just enough to have more shadows than real vision. “So, what the plan, _Robin_?”

But as the younger Bat has never been particularly known for patience or teasing once he knows what he _wants_, he’s already close enough to palm Tim’s hips, thumbs moving just above the waist band of his pants, to put them chest-to-chest, to crane his neck down and bring them together again. The noise vibrates against his chest, setting a slow burn inching up his spine, and the hands he’d been admiring, hands he could very well _appreciate_ during a spar, are on him, the side of his throat, fingers tangling in his hair. Unthinking, Dami backs Tim right up against the wall, blocks the shorter man in with his body, with his _wants_ and _needs_ long suppressed coming to the _fore_.

And it helps nothing, the sinful things Tim does with his tongue, the tightening of the hand in the back of his hair, the sweet _pull_ when his neck arches and the edge of teeth are at his jugular.

Tim huffs a laugh against skin and sinks into the taste of Dami, his too-long hair against the taller Bat’s jaw line, and he can only _just_ turn his face enough to get a hint of Tim’s scent when the mouth at his neck becomes suction. The noise coming from Damian Wayne is sharp with an edge of softness; it goes right to Tim’s cock and he _bites_.

In a fast movement, Damian has him by the back of the thighs, lifting the smaller man up against the front of his body, and takes the least amount of steps possible to half-drop Tim on the couch, taking a knee to grip the undershirt and pull with both hands.

Tearing cloth. The soft light highlighting muscle and scars and _perfection_.

Dami has had too many fantasies of this moment, too many possibilities of how things should _go_. He’s seen himself, his _hands_, his _mouth_ all over an undulating Timothy Jackson Drake—searching, finding every spans of sensitive skin, every weakness, each bringing him closer to this _goal_. He’s imagined himself pinned to brick and mortar in the shadows of a gargoyle by Red Robin while he _writhes_ under the calculating moves, the more experienced touch, to find _more_ things his body may _crave_.

None of those imaginings are with him in the here and now as his hands take the shirt away, skimming over shoulders and down the arms; he nuzzles in the sweet and sharp curve of neck, almost groaning when Tim tilts his head to allow more exploration.

“Dami, _touch me_,” is hoarse, a vibration in Tim’s throat by his cheek, and the younger of the two shudders delicately with the permission. He has an arm around the middle of Tim’s back, bracing with his other to hold them up while his mouth starts at the jugular to lick and nip and _suck_. Even while he starts to lose himself in this, the smooth satin of skin under him, the scars and strength and steel pressed against him, he takes note of every move, ever sigh, every noise. A spot on his collar bone, teeth kissing along the curve and Tim’s legs, _thighs_ are moving restlessly, one still trapped between Dami’s knees, the other already raising to nudge against Dami’s hip.

“Timothy,” out with a breath against his pectorals, dangerously close to a tight nub, “_Tim_.”

The older blinks, eyes a little hazy, but he grips Dami’s shirt and pulls. The remainder of the buttons fly, Tim pushing him upright to get the boundaries out of the way, sliding his leg out from between Dami’s to kneel, to take his mouth, to get more of that _taste_ while the clothes come off. This is quickly becoming _not enough_, his skin itching for skin.

The shirt and tank underneath go flying off somewhere not important, Tim’s hand in Dami’s hair, directing, turning them to get _deeper_ and _more_, to press their bodies together so he can roll his hips, and _yes, yes_, the younger is just as _hard_ and _wanting._

In a precise move that could have been countered should Dami want, Tim turns them, lays Dami out under him so the dim highlights the mocha smoothness of his skin slightly broken by old scars.

“God, _look _at you,” Tim’s _eyes_ with _heat_ and _need_ in the night, his voice low and _dark_ with everything he thinks about doing to this body, to allow this body to do to _his_. “Dami…Dami, I’m _honored_,” before he ducks his head, bracing himself on his good arm while the other hand trails over skin, fingers splayed. It’s his turn to learn the texture and taste, the spots to cause a reaction, to make the finely toned sinews _strain_.

And, _God,_ Tim hadn’t been with anyone since he left Dick and Jay, he’d been a little too messed up about the situation (not the _choice_ because he’d been right; lonely, heartsick, but _right_) to think about a rebound or anything to make himself try to _feel_ something other than that intense _pain_, but in the here and now—with Dami, with his scent and his hands and his _taste_ and his _need_, Tim feels _more_ and it’s so effortless to focus his attention on the man under him. It’s so _perfect_ to be the cause of the heat turning up a notch in those blue eyes, to feel the hands tighten in his hair when he licks the little brown nub and blows before he _sucks_. It’s exactly what he needs to feel alive again, to feel like he’s doing the right thing for the right reasons.

Under him, while he worships the body, _Dami_, and the noises that spill out of him, the echoes of moans, the growls, the sighs, all of it goes right to the younger man’s ears, straight down where he’s straining against his zipper.

Dami almost lays his forearm over his eyes with the intense sensations moving through his synapsis at the touches and manipulations. He finds his hips moving unconsciously trying to find friction, trying to get _more_ because Tim is making him slowly lose his mind like this—and in return, the older man is losing that careful calculation and giving in to his desires. The touch isn’t planned or methodical, but desperate and _desired_, completed with a reverence Damian has never experienced with Colin or Stephanie. The sounds coming from deep in Tim’s chest just make it so much hotter, _intense_ with the realization the older man above him is just as turned on touching him like _this_. He is taking his _time_ to learn the nuances of Damian’s body.

He and Colin had been awkward, attempting to feel out the rhythms of their bodies as well as one another’s (after Father’s…_uncomfortable_ breach of the subject, he decided to wait until he was sixteen; Grayson did so he felt it an appropriate age). The few repetitions had made the act less self-conscious but not all encompassing; his few times with Stephanie had lead him to understand the act of pleasure _better_ but still had been uncoordinated and slightly uncomfortable regardless of her attempts at making it light and fun (“we can stop any time, okay? Just tell me how you feel. Tell me what feels good to you, what feels _right_ with your body.” He had as much as possible and she had been a knowledgeable and patient lover, kind in her own way; he just…it hadn’t ever been _intense_ as no fault of hers).

Neither of them had caused such feeling to course through his blood, to make his entire body arch without his command; their hands had not been so certain tracing along his skin, nor so thorough, mapping him out as if he is being _owned_.

And Tim finally leans his lithe body up, away, so he’s on his knees, shirtless and panting slightly, eyes so bright in the dim, intense and possessive of the body he’s looking down upon. Damian groans aloud at the expression, the _fierceness_. His eyes watch Tim’s hands slide over his own body, spread over his chest, and down his abdomen until his fingers are dancing along the ridge of his pants, inside the waistband to show a glimpse of hip bones and flashes of red underneath.

The move is so sensual, Damian pants with it, his eyes helplessly following, noticing those fingers have avoided the scars as much as possible—perhaps absently, perhaps not.

He does not realize he has moved until his darker skin is against the paleness, gripping Tim’s waist tight in both hands—his eyes never leaving those fingers unbuckling the belt, pulling at the button.

Tim pauses before opening his pants, a small smirk, and moves to the front of Dami’s pants instead, sliding his fingers in a parody of what he’d done to his own body, slipping in the waistband to feel the muscles clench and relax under his hand.

“Tell me. _Dami_, _tell me_.”

The shudder works its way through him, but the younger can only grip tighter, “yes, _yes_. Touch me…”

The growl makes him harder than the fingers loosening his belt, opening up his pants to the warm air and the light. Tim hops up in a flawless move gripping with a silent command for Damian to arch his back and lift his hips, to give the older Bat _all of him_.

The slacks slide away, discarded with the shirt, and light pink paints Damian’s face and upper chest; this time his forearm does come up to cover his eyes. He has been seen bare before and yet—

Tim has his wrist in a tight grip, moving it with real strength, leaning down to bring their mouths together again in admonishment.

His free hand, lightly, teasingly, runs fingers over the cut of Dami’s hips and _down_ while his tongue wraps around and slides.

The younger arches, cry muffled in Tim’s mouth when he palms the slightly curved erection. His own moan is lost between the breath and spans.

“God, _Dami_, you’re so _hard_ for me. You feel so good, so _perfect_,” while he starts working from base to tip, the foreskin sliding over the head in a soft caress.

“Tim, _Tim,_” Damian throws his head back, hips starting to roll, to _work_ since the callouses on Tim’s hand feel so _good_, the rhythm the right kind of slow for the moment. Tim kneels down beside the couch to be able to watch the younger shiver and shudder and _feel_ while he can look over all that skin and muscle move in a striking harmony.

And a remnant from Jay, Tim has developed a _habit_ or, well, a lack of filter from his brain to his mouth when it comes to sex and how he _sees_ everything.

“Look at you,” in a low growl, “_fuck_, Baby Bat, you’re so responsive, so fucking _perfect_ with my hand working your cock.” He dips his head to suck the nubbin closest to him again, taking in the ragged noise, tightening his hand, speeding up slightly.

“T—Tim,” and a slattering of Arabic, rapid and rolling off his tongue, brain stuttering enough that he _forgets_.

Still, Tim lets off enough to smirk again. “Don’t worry, Dami. We’re going to make it so good, aren’t we? And you’re going to tell me how you _like it_, how you _want me_.”

Another string of Arabic, manipulating Dami’s mouth in shapes that _beg_. Tim cuts him off mid-sentence, a demand to take his pants off too before they will be _unwearable_.

Abruptly, Damian wraps him up with both arms, sits up without breaking the kiss, quickly stands, bends, lifts, and carries the lighter man down the hallway of the Perch, desperate for a _bed_ (and eventually lubrication). Tim laughs against his mouth, wraps both legs around him and has no problem _grinding._

Keeping the shoulder in mind, Dami takes a knee on the bed in Tim’s room, and is abnormally careful laying the slighter man out. It’s Dami’s hands that slip inside to feel the curve of bone and more satiny skin, that slip around and take the pants down along with the boxers while Tim reaches out to open the first nightstand drawer for _necessaries_ to lay by his side.

And the low purr from the depths of Dami’s chest, the utterly _pleased_ noise when he sees the proud line of Tim’s hard cock and wetness, all for _him_, because of _him_, and _yes_ Tim does _want_ this; that noise makes Tim’s erection twitch slightly even as Dami’s palms warm his knees and slide _up_. Thumbs gently rub over old scars, fingers bite just a little into the muscles of his thighs. Tim arches helplessly against those hands on soft, sensitive skin.

“_Tim_,” his name a whispered prayer, a _benediction_, “I…I _must_ have—“ and those hands on the back of his knees, lifting slightly while Damian’s hot eyes take in the reddened erection and he leans close enough to lick a path from base to tip.

“Dami!” Tim grounds himself, gripping the set of broad shoulders between his thighs while the younger of the two becomes acquainted with his most intimate skin, licking and sucking, shuddering as though the taste is _exquisite_.

“F—Fuck,” bursts out when warm and _wet_ surround him, Dami’s tongue moving, Dami moaning around him and just—_Oh God…_

“I—I can’t _reach_ you,” Tim pants, staring down at his glistening cock sliding in and out of Damian’s mouth, his hand gripping the back of Dami’s neck. “C—come up here so I can—“

But he loses everything, arching, a cry wrung from deep in his chest when Dami hollows his cheeks and _sucks_.

And somehow, he’s gripping the younger man with his knees, watching, panting while Dami just lays between his legs, the long stretch of his powerful back and curve of his mocha ass highlighted while he tests and teases, holds and _works_, hands flexing around Tim’s thighs as though he feels he needs to hold _on_. His eyes closed, Damian feels out Tim’s responses to the pressure of tongue against the crown, the perfect amount of suction, the spasms caused when he attempts to work as much in his mouth as he can. His own erection pressed into the bedding is still prominent as doing this, being _permitted_, _trusted_ to do this, for Tim to _desire_ him is overwhelming—

“_Please_ Baby Bat,” he finally babbles, “oh my _God_, please come here so I can _suck_ you—**_Fuck_**_!_ I—I’m getting _close_ and I haven’t even—”

Instead, Damian frees a hand to gather the forgotten plastic bottle, slick up his fingers while Tim is distracted, and feel his way down to—

The ragged, low moan is indeed what he hoped for, still working the older man while testing the tight ring of muscle, gently breaching Tim’s body. His eyes flutter, roll up to Tim’s hot gaze and red cheeks, sucking again while he searches for—

As Tim’s body almost jackknifes with the sudden pressure on the pleasure spot, Damian’s eyes become _hotter_ just at the sight of the older man’s straining muscle, head thrown back to cry out softly. Those dexterous hands _tighten_ so perfectly, making Dami work his hips slightly to rub his erection against the sheets below, burying Tim _deep_ to muffle his moan. He cannot help himself, finding every moment more erotic than the last, a burning fire in his blood—build higher and more _intense_.

His second finger joins the first, making gentle yet insistent circles on that spot, and Tim’s body undulates, his cock hardens more against Damian’s tongue, leaking salty-sweet the closer he gets. And the _taste_ is what the younger of the two is after, what he _craves_. Stephanie tasted slightly sweet and bitter, similar to her nipples; Colin had faintly peppery; his own salty and thick. He _will_ have this intimate knowledge, of the taste of Tim’s pleasure, and hollows his cheeks again, speeds up as he _craves_.

“D-Dami, you-you have to s-s-stooop, I’m going to—ah _fuck me!_ Baby Bat, _please_, you’ll make me come if you don’t—“

But Damian’s free hand tightens on his thigh, slides up to lay his forearm over Tim’s hips to make sure the older understands: he _must_ have this, he _will_.

“Shit, Shit!” And Tim’s back arches beautifully when he finally comes, his cock throbbing in Dami’s mouth, in his throat, spilling himself inside with a hoarse, keening cry.

And Dami moans as he drinks him down, eyes half-mast, sucking and licking to make certain he takes everything Tim has to offer.

When the body under him finally goes pliant, Damian pulls off, licking his lips, _savoring_. He takes in the trembling muscles, the mindless sprawl, the chest rising with panting breath, and he smiles to himself in the dim, deeply satisfied. With terrifying grace, Dami crawls up Tim’s body, leaning down to press his mouth almost reverently to scars littered along Tim’s torso until he’s lying on his side, facing the older man.

Tim’s dark eyes open, his body beautifully on display in the moonlight—a rare moment in which this man is not trying to covertly _hide_. Damian drinks him in, looking his fill, his own body wound tightly; however, with Tim’s injuries, he would rather calm himself and establish what this, the two of them, may possibly become. He has no taste for single night occurrences, nor does he want to push the older man into something he does not necessarily desire. Rather, he looks his fill, relaxing into the bedding and mattress.

Tim, however, opens his eyes and looks over, his expression lax and somewhat _destroyed_ from his orgasm causing Damian to smirk this time.

“Forgive me,” in a low voice, “I could not help myself.”

The grin and ensuing laugh is perfect for the moment, Tim’s dark eyes sparkling with genuine mirth and affection.

In a flash, the older of the two is up and straddling Damian, leaning down to press their mouths together again, to taste himself still on Dami’s tongue. His hips roll against the prominent erection against his thigh, sighing into the kiss.

“You’re gonna kill me, you know, taking care of me like that.” He breathes, but Damian grips his biceps, making Tim pause from coming in for another kiss.

“You are injured,” in a gentler tone, “do not concern yourself—“

“Stop. Talking.” Tim’s eyebrows draw together, “I’ve been deep in my head about this, Dami. Wondering what it would be like if you ever…_thought_ of me in this way. I—yeah, so _no_, some injury isn’t going to keep me from taking advantage of your momentary lapse of reason.”

Dami’s eyes blow wide with surprise as Tim leans up, all lithe grace and muscle, already palming the bottle, flipping the cap with his thumb. Slick in his hand, and Damian throws back his head, gasping when Tim works him, gets him _ready_ for—

“I…_ah, Tim! _I haven’t—_you_ haven’t been prepared properly—“

Damian’s body jerks in reaction to the hand tightening, moving, getting him so _slick_ and _hard_.

“I’m ready, Baby Bat,” Tim’s voice deep and dark with emotions Damian has yet to hear, “I’m _so_ ready for you. Some other night, you can take as much time as you want. Not now.”

And again, he _moves_, shifting on his knees until he can line them up, rubbing the head of Dami’s cock right against his slightly stretched opening. He misses the expression of surprise and satisfaction on Damian’s face—the promise of _some other night_.

Those broad hands are on Tim’s hips with a desperate hold, Dami gripping him like either Tim might change his mind and stop or Dami might stop this if he thought the injury is too severe. Hell no, Baby Bat, just _hell no_.

“I _need_ this, Dami, I need to _feel _you in me. I bet you’ll like how tight I am, how _deep_ I can take you.”

“_Tim_,” a warning and plea wrapped up in one word, Dami’s hips already shifting to rub against him, the younger man biting his lower lip as if trying to regain his _control_.

“We’ve got _all night_, Dami. I can take you _slow_ at first, draw you out,” and his hands move over Damian’s chest, thumb his nipples while his hips move in tandem, let that thick cock slide over his ass. “Make you lose your mind with how _good_ I feel, how _full_ you’re going to make me.” A deep growl as he pinches slightly, “I can feel how much you _want_ this.”

“Yes,” hissed through clenched teeth, “just you, Tim. I want _you_.”

The hands on his hips tighten as he rises up, moves to hold Dami at his base and squeeze lightly, panting himself at the build-up.

“You can _have_ me,” Tim sinks down slowly, so _slowly_, until the tip breaches him and he shudders slightly, his thighs _tight_ with anticipation and trying to keep it easy. “**Fuck**, _Dami_, you can _have me_.”

And Tim just breathes as he sinks down, taking Damian by degrees, the hands on his hips now tighten to the point of _pain_. A fleeting moment of dread claws into the sensuality of it—does Tim mean only for tonight?

A rolling rhythm of Arabic again as all thoughts are pushed away and Damian’s senses overloaded with the incredible feeling enveloping him—tighter than Stephanie, more encompassing than Colin—with Tim’s scent and taste still on the back of his tongue. He has to grit his teeth, to force himself _not_ to thrust to bury himself _completely_. He strains to allow Tim the time needed to adjust when all he desires is to brace his feet and thrust his hips _up_.

With the pink flush on Tim’s face and chest, his eyes half-mast, mouth open in an “o” of pleasure/pain as he takes all Damian has, sinking down until he’s nestled in the cradle of Dami’s hips.

And as if he planned such, Damian’s hand slides up over skin and scars and muscle, his palm and fingers pressing, memorizing, until he’s spanning the side of Tim’s neck, turning his face down slightly.

“You are _exquisite_,” his voice is a hoarse growl, thumbs moving over the sharp angle of jawline, “Tim, you will _break_ me like this.”

The quiet snicker, followed by a genuine smile, white in the dim, and Tim cups his hand around Dami’s, turns enough to press a kiss to the palm, a flick of his tongue against the thumb.

“Not _break_, Baby Bat. Not unless you ask _nicely_.”

And Tim’s hips shift in a circle, Dami moving only marginally inside him, but _still_—the younger man gasps, the hand on Tim’s hip tightens again, _strains_ to keep still. Tim braces his hands on Dami’s abdomen while he moves, partially to give his body time to adjust since it’s _been a while_ and _fuck Dami is **huge**_, but to give them both a little time to calm down. He doesn’t want it to be over so soon, he _needs_ this, hadn’t realized how much until Dami threw it out there while they were in the hidden back room of his office:

_“You, Tim. For the last several years, **you**.”_

And, oh _God_. He’d errantly thought of the possibility after Dami started warming up to him, getting older, working better with him. He’d made a promise to himself, to never let Dami or Jay go back down into that forever dark without a _fight_, without standing in the way, and eventually the two figured it out. They, Damian and Jason, had thrown their lot in with B and Dick to get him back into the family, to make him a part of things—to give him a place back in the Bat ranks when he’d pretty much had one foot out of Gotham, ready to take the final step to be _gone_ (he’d assume that’s what they all _wanted_, what they needed to happen). Dami’s anger had faded, and their truce had been established in the confines of the mission to slowly spread out into their lives as regular people. They’d never be _brothers_, but they’d began tolerating each other, complementing one another, and becoming _friends_. Somewhere along the line, it got to the point he could tell Dami anything, and realized the younger man could do the same—even with things he couldn’t tell Bruce or Dick, Tim wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t lecture or try to help solve everything. He could just listen if that’s what Dami needed.

The possibility of _more_ had been a fleeting fantasy in odd moments, never something come to fruition.

Until tonight.

And now he’s getting hard again with Dami, _Dami_ stretching him, Dami’s hips undulating in the attempt to let him control the pace, his cock so _hard_ inside Tim; it’s Dami sitting up to press their bodies together, their mouths and tongues, hands gripping and searching, seeking more pleasure spots. He swallows his own name groaned against his mouth, moans when hands tangle in his hair to pull him down for deeper and _more_, grip Dami’s shoulders when he finally_, finally_ rises up using his knees and thighs to start the ride.

He holds Dami’s eyes while he begins to move, groaning when his nerve endings tingle and the discomfort is replaced with something so much _better_. He watches Dami moan low in his chest at each drag out and gasp at push back inside. And he throws his head back when every drop brushes along his spot, making his cock harden more at the sensations jolting through his body: him, Dami, skin, touch and taste, wants and needs slowly being fulfilled…

He hears the Arabic flowing over them, half his brain translating in pieces, how tight he is, how good he feels, how beautiful he is like this, how long this has been wanted, how he is taking Dami apart piece by piece. And his chest expands with it all, with the pleasure and heat, the warmth and affection, the beginnings of something _deeper_ in those blue, blue eyes watching him ride, watching his body move and _take_.

Because he _can_, Tim answers him back in Arabic, talking gently against his mouth as he speeds up the pace, muttering how full he is, how _good_, how much he _needs_, how erotic Dami is when he’s turned on like this, _pleasured_, what an honor it is to _have_ this part of the younger man, how the reality doesn’t _touch _his imagination, how much this trust _means_ to him. How much he _needs_ Dami to _fill him up_…

Dami gives a groan at the talk, hands coming up around Tim’s shoulders to _grip_, and his body lunges, taking Tim to his back, kneeling between his thighs and drives _deeper, _gripping Tim’s hips to hold him at the perfect angle and speed up the pace.

Tim grips Dami’s biceps, laying back to be taken, _owned_, shuddering under the intensity of Damian’s gaze, of the _deep_ and consistent rhythms, his own cock starting to leak at how _too much_ and _not enough_ it is. But he hazily knows Dami won’t give in and piston into him _hard_ and _rough_ and _fast_ until the injury heals, and just _God the possibilities for when that happens_. His mouth waters, watching the muscles in Dami’s arms and chest, his abdomen flexing while he slides so wetly back and forth. The pressure and pleasure mounting, taking him _higher_.

“Dami—“ he gasps, “Dami, _please_…!” His legs wrap around, pull closer, his back arches when a particular thrust almost has him coming and just _God, yes…_

Without stopping, Damian leans over him, speeding up slightly, to palm his neck again and shove his noises down Tim’s throat along with his tongue. Those eyes are so full of _heat_, marking Tim in a way that makes his stomach clench through the sweet, fast glide. His hands grip _tighter_, his back arching helplessly at the thought of _belonging_ and _possessing_ (the brief flutter of _panic_ and _fear_ of being hurt again should he give himself over is swallowed up by Damian’s touch). At the thought of another night when he can open Dami up, can be the first to show him _this_ pleasure, be the one to turn Dami into a writhing mass of _need_, to hear him _beg_ to come. He shudders with the image, crying out as the rhythm speeds up, bringing him to _close_ again—

“You are so beautiful when you _come_, Tim. _Give this to me._ Come while I am inside you, while I _take_ you.”

And a series of rapid thrusts right over _that_ spot_…_ and Dami’s desperate, needy _noises_, and he can’t hold _back_.

Tim keens when he comes a second time, spilling himself all over them, his whole body taunt with the pleasure exploding through every synapse—and Dami doesn’t _stop_, just fucks him through it, crying out loud when Tim gets so _tight_, milks him so _hard_ and it’s too _much_—he is the one that has made Tim reach the pinnacle of pleasure a _second_ time and it is _everything_ from his fantasies—

The younger man almost _screams_ when his body reaches the finale, a hard thrust so he comes _deep_, right against that spot again, panting and moaning, collapsing on Tim’s uninjured shoulder as he comes apart at his own orgasm, lucid enough to move his hips just enough for the pleasure reverberate through his whole body.

Tim has enough brainpower to realize his limbs are gripping Dami firmly, feeling the breath and moans against his throat, of Dami’s chest against his stuttering for each panting breath as he comes down slowly. A forearm braces some of his weight off Tim, the other hand gripping the side of his throat to hold Tim’s head still so Dami can be nuzzled against him.

A soft sigh and a sweeping elbow puts Dami’s full weight on him, something so _comforting_ about it—something Tim can analyze later while he keeps gripping the younger man against his body.

Damian seems to finally come back to himself, muttering, “injured—“

“Don’t. Move.” Tim counters, turning his face slightly to rest again Dami’s. His chest expands deeply in a contented sigh when Dami, for once, does as he’s told.

**

Robin meets Batman and Nightwing on the roof of the Wallstone Apartments the next night. He is ready to get his assignment for patrol as the Red Hood is off for the night in recompense for the prior evening.

“Red?” Father asks firsts.

“Nursing an injury. Not serious.” Robin answers calmly.

N’s eyes go wide, “what? How ‘not serious’ is it really, Baby Bat?” They are all aware of Tim’s definition of _not that serious_ is most people’s definition of _life ending_.

“Serious enough that he should not be swinging. He will be assisting Oracle tonight in data collection and direction.”

Batman and N exchange a glance, more effective since the whiteouts aren’t down as of yet.

“Okay, what’s the secret then?” N arches an eyebrow over the domino, arms crossing over the blue insignia spread over his chest and shoulders.

“Secret?” Robin has a moment of dread but not _regret_ (_touching and kissing under the spray of the shower; placing kisses nape of the neck while he re-wraps the injury; waking up with Tim’s relaxed face right against_ _his chest, their arms draped over one another, warmth and skin; arms around his waist as he makes breakfast for them, bringing Tim coffee the way he knows is preferable; the wide smile hidden behind his coffee cup when Damian gravely explains he has no interest in a purely sexual relationship—he desires **more**; Tim’s gentle agreement, he also desires something more than sexual gratification—although that is definitely a benefit; the heat in his face when Tim’s eyes go feral and calculating, detailing how he wishes to pleasure Damian more thoroughly after patrol…_).

“How you convinced Red to stay in,” Batman elaborates in his less deep growl.

A litany of things pass quickly, a snarky come-back that Red also slept the agreed upon eight hours, an observation that perhaps making breakfast and coffee should be his duty in the Manor should Red stay over, a sharp smirk with nothing following (and, yes, Grayson would _understand_), or simply advising them that Red is now _his_ until further notice. Each is discarded quickly as the family can figure it out _for themselves_ as it is not their concern.

“I simply pointed out the possible detriment further injury would cause. Should he wish to retain use of his arm, the shoulder must have adequate time to heal. Of course, he is also working multiple cases and could use the time to analyze data.” Robin shrugs a shoulder, already looking bored.

B huffs a bit of a laugh at his youngest son, glad to see the two taking care of one another (it’s been a long time coming, this peace between his four sons, and never has Bruce or the Batman been more satisfied with their family dynamic). “Noted. Good strategy. N is going to be down by Dixon. You’re on the Narrows tonight. Take the worst twelve blocks first, check in with O. We’ll rendezvous by one and make our way further back unless we have a situation. Arkham and Blackgate seem quiet tonight, but—

“—always have a plan.” Robin and N fill in automatically.

B chuff another laugh on principal and pulls his own grapple. “Be safe.”

“You as well,” Robin grips a gauntlet, just for a second, before pulling his own, turns to prepare to fly.

Batman is gone when N turns, a smirk in the street light. “Da-ami,” N sing songs low.

Robin sighs a little and turns back, eyeing his mentor, his big brother. He crosses his arms over the tunic, his uniform altered in the years he’s worn it. He’s maintained the hooded cape, the red and gold (_Tim’s hands on his chest when the tunic goes on, the R gleaming between them, just another connection, “Be. Careful.” “Tt, that is **my** line, Habibi.” And yes, it was a **strain** to keep himself from **more**, from ‘hobi’ and ‘hayati’ or ‘ana bahabak.’ It is too soon for such things_), Grayson’s aesthetic is not lost in his Robin interpretation, but he has long since made it his own.

“Richard,” he fills in low, keeping this between them, “you and Jason are _fools_.”

N’s blue eye go _wide_ behind the domino. “Dami—“

Robin holds up one gloved hand, “**no**. You are too late.”

“Too late?” N shakes his head a little, “no, Baby Bat, that’s not what I’m saying here. I just don’t want either of you to…get _hurt_, okay? He… we didn’t want him to get hurt either and it happened anyway.”

Now Robin goes still, staring.

N’s expression darkens, his body taunt. “He wouldn’t let us talk him out of it. You think we would have given him up _willingly?_”

And _oh,_ Robin’s chest expands in a deep breath when the realization hits abruptly. “Richard…_Dick_—“ because, yes, there is pain below the surface, and now he can _see _it. “You _knew_. Both of you knew what he was doing.”

He does not need confirmation, the proof is in the darkening of N’s eyes.

Robin moves, closing in, gripping Nightwing’s wrist needlessly. This man has always been his friend, his mentor, one that would never turn from him. Now that he _understands_ the other motivations, that he can _imagine_ the pain between the three—guilt bites hard and feral.

“Give me _time_,” he claims in a low tone, “perhaps…he would be receptive to an…_understanding_. A collaboration of sorts.”

N laughs, a sound without humor, and leans in, still slightly taller than the youngest, “hey, Dami, it’s _okay_, like I said, I don’t want either of you to get _hurt_—“

“While you and Jason are in pain?” Robin counters. “Richard, we are _not_ a…” he waves his free hand, trying to find the words, something to make this _right_ “…a _conventional_ family. We are bonded closer than that. It is the way of our lives. And perhaps…we could make the _attempt_. If not to make everything _right_, then to satisfy all of us.”

“I—_Dami_, I don’t _know_ if we could—“

“That is why we will give it time and consideration. Not exceptionally long. You will speak to Jason. I will speak to Tim after a few weeks, longer if necessary. We shall see what progresses. However,” Robin grips the wrist tighter, his eyes darken in the night, “our lives are dangerous, Dick. I have learned that we must take what happiness we are able to grasp while we _can_. If this is what we must do to make that happen, then why not at least give it a _chance_?”

Nightwing opens his mouth as if he is going to say _something_ but seems to reconsider. For long moments, the two stand on the rooftop, looking at one another, pensive on the possibilities presented.

“I can’t promise anything, Dami, but…I’ll talk to Jay. We’ll think about it.”

Robin nods gently, “we shall do the same. I—cannot promise, Tim was—” He hesitates as these are not his secrets to share.

“Tell me,” N demands low, his tone hinging on painful.

“He was not…_fine_…for some time. He told me he has come to _accept_ things he is unable to change.”

A deep sigh lifts N’s chest while the two stare back at one another, the years, the bonds between them.

“Thanks for telling me. We’ll…see what happens.”

“Agreed.” He finally releases N’s wrist, takes a step back, and together, the two vigilantes stride to the edge of the roof. Patrol will be completed with many things to consider.

And when the night is done, when the city settles into the fog, while dawn is still a few hours away, Robin tells Batman he will be staying in the city against tonight, his slight bumps and bruises will be tended. He will return to the Manor tomorrow afternoon to complete his reports, waving his two partners to the Batmobile to return home for the night.

Rather, he is greeted to the cracked window of Red’s perch, stepping into the shadows silently. The system screen is darker with analysis surely running in the background as the main room is empty. He strips the gauntlets and gloves as he walks down the dimly lit hallway, moving with deadly grace into the doorway of Red’s bedroom... and his breath catches.

Bare and laid out for him, those dark blue eyes lighten when Tim smiles, holds out a hand from the bed, and the previous conversation with N flies out of his mind for this, _this _intimacy that is _his_ and _his _alone.


	3. Drabble: Cute Overprotective Dami!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabs from Tumblr. Batfam still being concerned when they hear it's been a bad night for the Titans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Dami like this. I love writing him growing and gaining more complex sides, softening up to the family in his own way.

At Wayne Manor, any dinner with more than two attendants has become _sacred_. When the Batclan has actual time to sit down and eat together, it is rote that such things are to be _respected_ as Alfred actually has the opportunity to prepare a full meal, B isn’t half-asleep in his Beef Wellington, Dami isn’t at night classes or completing the compendium of homework before time to take to the streets, Dick isn’t on patrol (either of them), and Jay isn’t flipping a random knife in his fingers just for shits and giggles. Even more _importantly_, Cass is sitting serenely across from Damian, grinning at him while he talks about taking Titus to a _foolish_ vet for the arthritis beginning in the hound’s back flank (and _no,_ he will _not_ be putting his companion down unless absolutely _necessary_—he would not wish the animal to be in agony but he will not play with Titus’ life); Stephanie is nudging Jay’s knee with her heel from across the table when their last hit of good intel proved to be absolute _shit_ and the crate full of bright neon vibrators provided some criminals still have a sense of humor, but also Babs is sitting at B’s left hand, talking gently about the upgrades to the theatre in the last month and reassuring B the break-in didn’t reach their hidden room where the computer banks and systems are stored.

Alfred is waiting by the sideboard, watching with fond eyes, the post-dinner coffee hot and ready for the first signal.

_But_—

The obvious ringtone, an instrumental, ends all conversation as the eyes swing to Dami who has obviously paused in the middle of his detailed explanation _why_ the veterinarian is a complete _moron_.

“I apologize, Father,” he bites out stiffly, pulling his phone to stop the ringtone when his eyes are drawn to the screen and narrow dangerously.

The text message summary on his lock screen is _Bf Bff_ and the message: _Before you get pissed _answers the question as to whether or not he should be at the Perch after patrol to greet his significant other, who is _supposed_ to be returning to Gotham in the morning.

Damian doesn’t hesitate, thumbs his screen open and reads the message in its entirety. A single blink and he’s abruptly on his feet, towering over the table, straight-backed, thumbs moving to select the _Call_ option.

“Excuse me everyone,” the formality taken care of, he has the phone against his ear before even stepping back from the table, speaking while he’s striding behind the family.

The darkness in his tone causes the eyes at the table to follow his progression, “What has happened?”

The party on the other end speaks, makes the youngest of the Bats pause mid-stride, halfway to the door. “What is his current temperature?”

The tension in Damian’s shoulders is apparent as he listens closely.

“Now that you have relayed what _he_ told you to say, tell me the _truth_.”

Stillness at the table. Only Alfred moves, silently slipping into the kitchen as he is aware of the happenstance and what will be needed. The others are eavesdropping with all the Bat-senses.

“I see. Fortunately, it appears he has not gone septic as of yet; still, I will be leaving momentarily. Keep me informed if the situation deteriorates.” Pause as the speaker starts up with _something_ that makes the youngest stiffen, “as I _said_, I will _leave_ momentarily.”

The voice on the other end gives a terse reply, a short explanation.

“_Tt_. I do not argue the fact, as you are _well aware._ The Titans supplement his disastrous _tendencies_ as well as can be _expected_.”

Pause, laughter on the line, more than one voice, and _no_ Dami is not chuckling softly himself. That must be Grayson. Who, like B, is downing a cup of coffee _quickly_.

“It is gratifying to know we are all united in this.” The “_fucking right, Rob_!” from Kid Flash makes the youngest Bat quirk a small smile. “I will pack a few things and be on my way soon. Should he wake, there is no need to tell him; it is not as though he can stop me.”

Alfred comes out of the kitchen with containers, travel cups also filled with coffee, and several packed bags. Of all the Bats, he really is the backbone of the family.

“I shall. Until then.” Damian ends the call as Alfred comes up to him and hands out a travel mug to the surprised Robin; next is a bag with his dessert, as well as a helping of dinner for Master Tim, and an emergency bag with the _necessities_. He moves as Damian adjusts everything, standing by the door with bags as B, Dick, and Jay are already standing at their places.

“You must excuse me from patrol tonight, Father, I will be—“

“Let’s get _with it_, Demon,” Jay passes by him, already taking the travel mug and one of the pre-packed bags hanging from Alfred’s shoulder. “The goddamned plane ain’t gonna fly _itself_, you feel me?”

The youngest blinks once, opens his mouth to speak as Dick passes him next to get his supplies as well. “C’mon Dami, let’s go see how bad Timmy got himself hurt this time. You can give us the deets when we’re in the air.”

Father is saying to Babs, “don’t worry about the Narrows. Realistically, we’ve been hitting everyone hard the last few weeks. Arkham and Black Gate have been quiet. You three should take a night off.”

Steph laughs a little, her eyes twinkling as she waves them all away.

Babs, arms crossed over her chest, just grins up at him since, well, B might have had some semblance of authority once upon a time. Maybe.

Cass stands up to hug him hard and moves with silent stealth to steal a hug from Damian, Dick, and Jay as B is taking his own mug and bag from Alfred with a nod to the butler’s instructions on the items he packed for Master Tim. The three men take her hugs _seriously_ since there never seems to be enough _time_.

“All right, _all aboard_ the Good Ship Get to Timmy’s Stupid Ass,” Jay calls, already making his way to the grandfather clock. Dami follows behind in somewhat of a stupor, sipping the coffee made perfectly and carrying what feels like a _bucket_ of Alfred’s home-made soup. B is walking backwards, telling his girls to be careful and _call_ him if they need anything and _remember their limitations_.

Babs is just nodding with a serious face on to placate helicopter Bat-Dad while Steph openly laughs at him; Cass just smiles softly, always touched at his obvious concern and protective instincts with _all_ the Bat kids.

B finally gives a wave and follows his three sons down the stairs while his three daughters plan on what trouble they intend to get into while Gotham is theirs.

**

While the Batwing warms up and B runs through the pre-flight check, Dami is hacking his way into the Tower’s security system with ease—and not because Tim is the admin and he _cheats_. Rather, it is a constant game between the two of them, how long it will take Dami to guess the new encryption code to the backdoor access, how many different colorful, sexual phrases Tim can get him to learn by hiding the description in the coding (and _yes_, he was amused at _the act of performing fellatio while immersed in a pool of vanilla pudding._ How was he to _know_ such terms even _existed_? Tt.)

In seven minutes, utilizing the compendium of knowledge Father, Drake, Gordon, and even Todd had provided over the years, Damian and access the security cameras on the Medical floor, already knowing better than to attempt breaking into the Perch. It could very well fry the Batplane’s mainframe.

Rather, he is correct in his assumption as the live feed sharpens and two occupants—Kid Flash and Red Robin—are patients in the sterilized, pressurized room. The two Titans occupy the third and fifth bed; Red is lax, eyes closed, half-turned away from the camera (and a very quiet sigh lifts his chest when he sees no permanent damage or more machinery than just the oxygen line and IV pole with attached bag—no heart monitoring devices, breathing machines, or worse; apparently it is a good day). Kid Flash isn’t sleeping, but is playing a gaming device while lounging back, also hooked up to an IV bag. The rapid flutter at the bottom of the bed is Kid’s foot tapping a steady staccato.

Satisfied Superboy was not downplaying the situation more than Damian predicted, he cuts the feed and straps himself in, ignoring Todd and Grayson obviously waiting for him to report something. As much as he may have some _sympathy_ for his elder brothers in the current situation with Red, he cannot bring himself to give up aspects of this new intimacy, of his ability to claim deferential knowledge in regards to their third Robin. What’s _more_, he now has the right Grayson and Todd previously had to push their way into Red’s common (and terrible) practices to make certain _someone_ forced him to care for himself. It is gratifying Damian now has that position, to claim, to push for the_ truth_, to take a drawer in the Perch of the Tower or Gotham for _himself_ and his sundries, to claim a few hangers in the closets, a space in the hidden spots for his tunic and uniform (even the ones Red had taken _liberties_ to upgrade). His body has a niche in the mattress, another pillow appearing seemingly overnight, more blankets, vegetarian-friendly fares, and even a two-tiered cat tower should he wish to bring Alfred along with him. The dog bed for Titus appeared soon after, a box of treats under the kitchen sink.

A second toothbrush, a bottle of his shampoo, of his body wash, the filching of his t-shirts and _two_ of his hooded sweatshirts, these things simply began _happening_ in a comfortable, valuable progression—without the need for words or permission, just something taken as rote. Red seemed to anticipate this strange…_need_ in Damian to have _verification_ of his welcome. However, merely the _sight_ of Tim, sleepy, hair wild, in one of his shirts had prompted something in him to rise to the fore, pick the smaller man up by the thighs and walk him back to the bedroom.

In return, Damian had supplies prepared for Tim’s stay, moving to a room with space for a bigger bed, bigger closet, bigger shower to accommodate the two of them (of course, Pennyworth, Grayson, and Todd understood the reasoning behind it; thankfully, Father simply put a hand on his shoulder, advising him as he was a grown _man_, he should have more _room_, God knew the Manor has _enough_ of them. Damian had gravely nodded his agreement and nothing more was said on the matter). He made certain to partition a new laptop, affix the Red Robin insignia himself and leave the device in his clever hiding spot with his own machine, set up a secondary, smaller desk in the opposite corner as his to stock with tools and components should the elder man wish to _tinker_ (he is obviously successful as the last time Tim had stayed in the Manor, he had gone back to his own established room once for appearances and returned back through the window, grinning widely—the morning saw him at the smaller desk, fixing a broken compartment in the Robin utility belt, as though it bothered him to know there could be an issue with Dami’s equipment).

Titus, of course, had no quandaries flopping his massive head in Red’s lap, tongue lolling out; Alfred the cat merely allowed Red the _honor_ of petting and doling out treats. Bat-cow had little opinion to the shift in dynamic.

As the plane sails, Dami shoots a look over to Grayson and Todd sitting side-by-side at the opposite bank of systems while Father pilots from the front. The two are holding hands out of Father’s immediate sight and talking softly. They are…his only regret in this situation—at the time, it hadn’t occurred to him the break between the three of them had been anything more than consented. However, now that he _knows_—

Dami turns back to his own bank of screens, brought back to the situation at hand when they enter California air space, cutting into the night.

The previous offer to Grayson, the _possibility_, still lingers. Not something he’s brought before his significant other as of yet, hesitant to breach the subject until they are both _comfortable_, stable.

Even though he wishes to be purely selfish, watching those two, he thinks perhaps the time may be soon.

**

Kid Flash is out of the Infirmary and on the roof by the time Damian and the Bats are coming down the walkway. Cassie, arms crossed over her chest just mutters something to the effect, “thank the _goddess_, the only one other than _Alfred_ he’ll listen to,” which makes Kon raise a brow at her…but grudgingly agree.

None of the Titans are surprised to see the Batfamily coming out of the plane. A few pleasantries are exchanged while Damian takes Kon’s arm above the elbow without a necessary word.

“Run down,” Kon answers easily with a shrug, “he blacked out after that thing with the Mirror League—we heard him hit the ground over the comm line, so we hauled ass to find him in the field. No new injuries, but we’ve got him on antibiotics and a hydrating drip just in case.”

Damian sighs, frowning, “he will be the early death of me.”

Kon quirks a grin, “seriously, Rob. I’m _invulnerable_ and now? I’ve got grey hair. Totally his fault.”

Robin sans the costume smirks, “one of these days, Kent. He will _learn_.”

“If anyone can do it,” Bart supplies, stepping up, the bruises on his face fading, “I’m throwing money down on you, dude.”

“I will make it part of my _mission_,” but he’s eyeing the obvious marks intently, quirking an inquiring eyebrow.

Bart folds his arms over his chest stubbornly, “don’t you start too.”

Dami just _waits_, giving the unblinking Bat stare down.

“Fine!” Bart throws his hands in the air, “I might have had a run-in with Zoom before the Mirror League showed the fuck up with their crappy tech, but _that guy _is such an asshat. Really, I’m good now.”

Damian is well aware of the dangerous enemy to the Flash and his like—even Barry has horror stories of the things Dr. Zoom was able to accomplish. He makes a mental note to check on the speed traps once he assures himself Tim is healing and sleeping. Rather, he releases Kon’s arm and lays that bigger palm on Bart’s shoulder, a move very similar to a certain Bat-themed vigilante, startling a look of surprise from the older hero.

“It is good you have faced him without worse,” Damian fills in easily, “I have read his files before. Zoom is unpredictable and a genius, a dangerous combination.”

“You’re telling me, Rob,” Bart suddenly looks weary still, half grinning up. “Next time, I’ll make a few calls out if he’s not, you know, throwing me into time rifts and shit.”

The subtle acknowledgement, a testament to how far he and the Titans have come in the last few years, makes Dami’s hand squeeze just slightly. “I expect no less,” he answers without hesitation, with _sincerity_ and not just because of Tim.

The two best friends watch him go down into the Tower while BB and a visiting Vic are filling the rest of the Bats in on the massive supervillain ‘take over the world’ scheme Red coordinated before he just passed the hell out. Jay and Dick watch Dami go, but stay to get the details on how big of a bad the team has been dealing with for the past two days.

“You know,” Bart’s hip is cocked to one side. “I would literally do anything for Red, right?”

Kon looks over, one eyebrow arched.

“But if he keeps sabotaging shit like this, I might have to beat his ass. I mean, like, severely, right?”

“I have a better idea,” Kon replies mildly, earning Kid’s side-eye. “If he fucks this up with Rob, then we get the next shot. How about that?”

For the better part of thirty second, Bart is blinking rapidly, ingesting what Kon just insinuated. Kon finally looks over at him, “well, if I’m wrong, then I’ll take the next one.”

“_Dude_,” Bart’s eyes are wide, “I never _knew_—well, shit. That makes sense, I guess.”

Kon just grins back at him. “Even if he doesn’t fuck it up, KF, we could… you know, maybe _try_—”

The heat that suffuses Bart’s cheeks makes his honey-colored eyes more prevalent in his face. “We…We should _talk_ more, ah, about it, Blue. Yeah… Yeah, I think that would be a pretty sound plan.”

And Kon’s white smile glints in the night.

**

More gently than most people would credit, Damian bare fingers slide through Tim’s sweaty, messy hair while his eyes soften. As much as Tim claims he would get his mane of hair cut again, he still has not managed to get it shorter than below his ears (and yet, Damian does not mourn the fact—he enjoys this, one of the few soft parts of Tim’s body—whether he gives it this gentle touch or grips it while he writhes under Tim’s _expertise_).

“What am I to do with you, _habibi_?” But the warmth is his tone is impossible to miss as he leans down slightly and presses his mouth to Tim’s forehead, warm but not overly hot.

He has already removed the IV, read the reports on what treatment has already been administered. Realistically, he could move Tim to the Perch and care for him there, but the other Bats would also intrude. For the moment, Damian will keep an eye on the monitors and prepare the food Pennyworth sent for when Tim awakens.

**

Finding out he’d not only blacked out in the Tower after coordinating a major assault against baddies, but _also_ that the Batfamily en masse descended on the Tower like a vengeful wave of mothering hens, is not conducive to _good morning Red_.

But, with Dami’s hand lightly stroking his hair, the younger man’s chin braced on an arm close to Tim’s head on the bed in the Infirmary—well, that just makes _being sick is ass_ a little less terrible. Those green eyes, clear and sharp as glass, softening in relief when Tim opens his eyes, turns his head slightly on the pillow.

“Hey handsome,” his grin is a little less than a wince since _uh-oh_, _busted_.

A soft fluttering of Arabic (_it is evening, my heaven_), shaping Dami’s mouth in irresistible lines, earning a smile.

“_Azizy_,” Tim whispers back, “I’m okay, nothing too bad—“

Dami just hums, still shifting a hand through Tim’s hair, “the Titans heard you blackout over the comms, _jannety_. You fought metas while your immunities were dangerously low.”

Okay, so there was that.

“After you eat, I will carry you to the Perch to rest. Once your temperature is at acceptable levels, we can return to Gotham if that suits you.”

Tim chuff a laugh, his chest not too tight with sickness because _really, _it isn’t _that bad_, okay? The trip is a nice gesture but unnecessary—

“You aren’t going to carry me and second—“

Dami leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead and a soft one to his mouth before sitting back down.

“No fair being cute about it,” Tim deadpans.

“I must resort to dirty tactics to take care of you,” unconcerned the younger man shrugs.

“That…That is—“

“True and necessary,” Dami fills in, “I will warm up Pennyworth’s soup for you. Stay here until I return,” standing, the younger Bat leans down to press another chaste kiss before turning to stride out of the room.

And Tim, Tim just lies back and appreciates the view.

**

The plan, however, is derailed—by _mother hens_. When Dami returns with the soup, he is not shocked to see Dick sitting beside Tim’s hip, hugging the younger man (probably into submission) with his patented _hug of **doom**_. Jason on one side of the bed with B on the other, both men are taking their liberties in checking the sick bird’s vitals and unabashedly hiking up or down clothing around Dick’s hold to check for any injuries (older ones already stitched or bandaged, bruises and scrapes, nothing devastating as all four note). Tim has his opportunity to protest for all the good it does.

Once the preliminaries are accomplished, Father, Grayson, and Todd take time while Tim eats to assure themselves of his immediate health, reluctant to leave one of their birds who is so obviously accident prone and a master at hiding his injuries/illnesses.

Tim, as predicted, argues Gotham needs them more than he does, and _look_, his temperature is already down to below 100° so he’s _totally_ on the mend.

All four Bats give him _the look_. Aimed as his _face_.

None of them are happy with leaving their sick bird, Dami, however, assures them he will be staying for the duration and bring their third Robin back to Gotham once he is feeling up to the trip (the youngest also ignores the slight glare from his significant other when he immediately cuts off the train that _all_ of them should return home to defend their city. _Tt, _as if he would agree to simply _leave_). Only placated by Damian’s stubborn resolve—as it could possible match Tim’s—B, Jay, and Dick stay long enough to talk a bit more, get some of the deets on the Mirror League, obviously horrible at choosing names but, you know, _bad guys_.

“So, they have the ability to mirror super abilities? Taking up Metallos gig?”

Tim shrugs, the color already back in his face and his eyes clearing of the lethargy of sickness, “Mirror Master has been doing some experimenting with Metas that can pretty much mimic certain abilities. It took some thought, but we were able to determine which ones needed some kind of conduit as well as how in-depth the imitation could go. None of them could alter their genetic codes, so win for us.” Tim shrugs one shoulder in a _no big deal_ kind of way.

“Good thing they couldn’t mirror the Speed Force or Wonder Girl’s demigoddess abilities,” Bruce’s hand had snuck under the cover to absently grip Tim’s ankle, something that had usually comforted the younger Bat in the last few years. Well, World’s Greatest Detective.

“Very much so,” Tim grins at the four Bats around him, “they couldn’t use the Speed Force or Rave’s dark magic or BB’s shape shifting against us. Mostly, they could fly and use super strength. Two of them _could _speed, but burned out without anything to feed into their power. We were…_lucky_.”

And the Bats give him easy smiles and attention, honing in on the fact that _yes_, they were lucky indeed. Tim completely misses out on the shifting looks, but is okay enough that Dick’s octopus hug and Jay’s grip on his wrist don’t bother him anymore—the former _agony_ that used to come with those soft touches is finally being replaced with the bittersweet pang of nostalgia and slight regret. When he looks over at Dami’s green eyes and hidden smile, he can almost forget it all for what he has now (_almost_).

So he lets himself relax as much as possible after Dick, Jay, and B finally leave and Dami is striding into the Perch holding onto him without breaking so much of a sweat since Tim is much too light for a man of his size and muscle mass (“I eat _fine_.” “…surely you are making a joke at my expense, _habibi_.”). Rather than pause to put him down in any of the numerous spots, Dami orders the lock-down absently and keeps going into the bathroom.

Tim watches with warm eyes while Dami starts the shower, sticking a hand in to test the water, and pulls his own shirt before reaching for the hem of Tim’s. The younger is meticulous in everything—from taking off each item of clothing with care, to keeping a hold of Tim’s hip while the water eases some of the aches, to being absurdly gentle when washing around injuries or tender bruises, kneeling down to swirl the soapy cloth over Tim’s battered knees and feet, resting him against the shower wall to pick up one foot and then the other. He works shampoo in Tim’s hair with both hands, keeping them pressed together, Tim’s head tipped back against his collar bone, eyes closed while Dami works up the lather with a small smile.

However, he refuses to let Tim return the favor unless he is sitting. Tim’s eyes narrow slightly before he lowers himself down on the shower seat and waits, eyes taking in the lines of Damian’s bare body (_think of terribly unsexy things right now_). With a small sigh, the younger man soap up the cloth and kneels between Tim’s knees, head tilted back to look up at him.

“You’re silly, you know,” Tim scoots forward to start with Dami’s neck and shoulders, palming one side of Baby Bat’s neck while the other works against mocha skin. “Cute as hell, but silly.”

“I have every right to assure myself of your well-being,” Dami drawls out.

“You didn’t have to come all this way for nothing.”

“I would not call passing out in the field after a battle _nothing_.”

“No permanent damage.”

“This time.”

Tim’s eyes follow the movement of his hand down the chest, the abs, the wicked scars, and tempting skin. He very carefully concentrates on the act—not of what _that spot_ right on the side of Baby Bat’s ribs tastes like—

Dami turns, giving Tim his back, and the movement continues. A hand grips his calf while his thumb makes lazy circles at the nape of the neck, feeling the tension slowly give way. And, yes, Damian notices there is another bottle of shampoo in this shower for him, _his_ preferred brand.

Tim tips his head back with a hand on the jaw and starts to work said shampoo into Dami’s hair, pretending he doesn’t hear the soft sounds that really just _really_ make the whole _trying not to be aroused as hell with a naked, wet Dami right fucking **here**_so much more difficult.

Usually, picturing something like, well, Cobblepot _in a bikini_ is the ultimate boner-killer, but not _even that _is working right now. Dammit. This totally isn’t the _time_.

Tim gingerly stands, guiding Dami to stand as well, step back into the spray so water sluices off him, taking soap and shampoo, giving Tim a few breaths to calm down a little (not) and focus on those meditation exercises during the whole Iron Fist training ordeal.

“I—it didn’t hit me until halfway through,” Tim admits throwing himself a _bone_ here (distraction: his second most effective weapon aside from the bo). “That’s the truth.”

Hands raised to assure his hair is shampoo-free, Dami’s green eyes peer at him from over one shoulder while the water tracks down. He’s grave when it comes out, “The sensors in your suit did not trigger, Tim.”

_Fuck. Busted yet again_.

He sighs a little because _yeah, bad habits and such_. Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try to backpedal like hell, “I’m _sorry_, I shouldn’t have—“

And, well, Dami is a _Bat_. Turning, moving with speed even in the shower, just suddenly pressing Tim against the tiled wall, hands above his shoulders to box him in while with his arms and body, those jade eyes miss _nothing_.

“One day,” his voice deep and low, pulled from the depths of his chest, “you shall _believe _in me, Tim. You will believe I take you as you are, that I have no wish to _change_ you. I accept you. I only want to be there when you fall. To be permitted to _catch_ you.” And the softness, something so rare in the youngest—the one that’s had to overcome the brutality of the world of assassins, to choose his _own _way—makes the words, the placating promises die on Tim’s tongue while he stares up into that brutal beauty. “One day, _jannety_, you will trust in me.”

And his eyes soften with that, with _Dami_ putting it out there in his usual ‘this is how it is like it or not’ kind of way when he’s being just so _fucking_ sincere and—

Tim closes the distance, hands finding, framing Dami’s face gently so he can press a desperate, chaste kiss to that wet mouth, close his eyes _tight_ against the litany of things running through him at the admission, trying to keep himself together and not start with the emotional bullshit. Out of everyone, the Titans, the Bats, the allies and enemies, sometimes it’s only Dami that _gets it_.

And he’s pulled tighter into an embrace with his chest pressed against Dami’s, their skin slick and warm. His thumbs move in gentle circles on that strong jaw, the kiss sweet and slow. It’s both of them trying to relay something far more important than words can spit out—it’s in the way Dami’s hands span his hips, the gentle movement of his mouth and tongue.

When he finally pulls back with a sigh, Tim tilts Dami’s face down, and presses their foreheads together. Dami doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t _need_ to—they simply stand under the spray and hold on.

**

His body, however, is apparently not on the _be gentle and sweet_ train—but at least (as he quickly wraps a towel around his waist) he convinces Dami he can walk on his own steam from the bathroom to the bedroom. Well, that doesn’t stop Baby Bat from following right behind him, moving away to toss the blankets back on the bed so he can probably be forced to stay there until probably _everyone_ in the superhero community (though, knowing Dami, he’ll probably call Alfred and make him give a _yea_ or _nay_, he always does) decides Red Robin is good to get moving again. Because, you know, superheroes are a) the worst gossips _ever_, b) come _the fuck apart_ when someone in the community is down for the count, and c) have little to no shame. Seriously, ask BB, he can’t even _buy_ some.

Fluffing pillows and Tim’s careful arrangement of the towel, however, don’t stop Dami from noticing the—_issue._ A slow, sly smile spreads over his face, pulling the scar at his lip when his eyes flicker down; he hums a little to himself and eases the drawer of the nightstand open. Tim is busy searching for a pair of boxers and looking for some pajama pants (he discards a pair, quickly burying it back under the rest since, well, he has a bad _habit_ of taking clothes apparently). While he digs, hair still dripping down the nape of his neck, Dami moves to carelessly lean in and run his tongue over the sensitive skin, tasting both the droplet and salty-sweet.

As the youngest plans, Tim shudders with the motion, his free hand bracing on the dresser. Taking that for assent, Dami steps behind him, back to chest, to pull the elder up so he can slowly press his mouth to a shoulder and work his way to the side of Tim’s neck, kiss by gentle kiss. A soft chuff of a laugh and Tim brings a hand up to turn Dami so he can press a kiss onto his mouth because, _no_ Baby Bat, you don’t need to follow up with this. In his own way, Tim already _believes_.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says gently, looking up into those eyes, “we don’t have to—“

But Dami just turns him, lifts him up carefully, and takes them to the bed, not giving a good _damn_ if the towels flutter off and away from their skin in the process.

Rather, he is more interested in leaning over Tim to begin with gentle touches, his mouth and hands absurdly tender and thorough to build the pleasure slowly, to allow Tim’s body time for the nerve endings to come _alive_.

“Dami, _azizy_,” he gasps, “it’s _okay_. I _promise_. I—I’ll be _fine_, you don’t have to—to do that.”

“Relax for me, _habibi_.” Dami breathes against his collar bone, “_This_ is my pleasure.”

Tim groans with it, with the easy kissing and tasting of skin, of calloused fingers sliding over the ridges and curves of his body, pausing to whisper over old scars in reverence. The erogenous zones, the place under his knees, the inside of his thighs, the wicked scar cutting across his lower abdomen, are carefully and methodically stroked, kissed, worshiped to make the pressure in him intensify.

“D—Dami! I want to—I—”

“Sshh,” the younger whispers over the tight nub, rubbing his parted lips over, “allow me to take care of you. Tim—” and he kisses the bud, circles it with his tongue, pulls it into his mouth to _suck_.

Tim writhes under him, tossing his head while threading his fingers in Dami’s hair to hold him closer.

“—_let me_.”

And, _God_, he _does_ because Dami uses _that voice_, the one that literally makes him melt. Fuck. He’s got too many weaknesses for Baby Bat and it just—

Tim gasps, looking down with heat taking him over when Dami’s hips start moving, sliding their stiffening erections against one another in a sensuous, easy rhythm, taking his _time_ while he lathes the scars along the chest and sides, kissing, sucking, licking. And not being able to give _back_, to have Dami under his hands, _his_ mouth is tantamount to _fucking torture_, but the slow and tender, the easy and gentle, the kiss of teeth and sliding of skin, is making his thought process stutter without a reboot. He’s swallowed by sensation, sensitive to every _move_ as Dami draws him out, makes him focus _only on the pleasure_.

He loses himself enough that he has no idea what’s happening when the younger Bat finally rises to his knees, green eyes so unbearably _hot_ and finally, _finally_.

Tim automatically starts to spreads his knees, making room for Dami’s hips. Those palms make him pause, fitting his knees together so Dami can crawl up his body, kneel over his abdomen and—

Tim’s mouth falls open a little. Baby Bat’s hand is already slippery, and he reaches around to grip the straining erection sliding over his ass, slicking Tim up for something they haven’t done yet. Just _fuck_, you’re, you’re going to do this _now_? He didn’t even get to have fun prepping or _anything_—this, _this_ is very not _okay_.

The growl rising up makes Dami smirk down at him as though he knows precisely what Tim is thinking, why those hands are gripping the younger man’s thighs tightly. He has already prepared himself, anticipating finally taking Tim within his body, to become _one_ in this way—he should have asked for it sooner, yet their couplings had usually been so full of _need_ and _want_, almost frantic at times; it is not often Damian Wayne, _Robin_ could claim himself to be _overwhelmed_. Tim’s capitulation, the intimacy he _gives_, however—

“There will be another time,” he soothes.

“I’m so pissed,” Tim returns calmly, hips moving just slightly, enough to make him moan for it. “So _pissed_, _azizy_.”

“Then you should care more for your health in the field, _habibi_.” Slightly admonishing, but Dami means his sentiments; he has no wish to change Timothy Drake—for better or worse.

Tim’s voice goes dark, _deep_ just like his eyes when Dami straightens, arches slightly so his muscles move in that terribly dangerous sync. “I should have been the one opening you up._ I_ should have been sucking you, licking you, getting you ready for me.”

Dami’s eyes flutter closed, a shudder working up his spine when he considers that _mouth_ and what it could do to him. He releases Tim’s erection, shifts back so the throbbing length slides over him, close to his wet, stretched opening.

“Once you are in full health, I look forward to having your…_undivided_ attention.”

Those hands slide up to grip Dami’s hips when he starts taking Tim in _slowly_, so unbearably _slow _and a moment when Tim almost forces him to stop, stares hard, _intent_, at his lover’s face, worried it might all be _too soon_ and not enough prep for _this_—

The deep purr rising up, Dami’s head tips back, mouth open, all of it negates _that_ thought. Even Dami’s hands easing over Tim’s tight wrists and forearms, rubbing the tension away as he finally seats himself on Tim’s hips, taking _everything_ and finally _looks_—

His eyes are soft, pupils blow with _pleasure_ and _need_ in the same way when Tim takes him all the way, and he sinks as far into Tim’s body as he possibly _can_, joining them so perfectly, so intimately.

“_Dami_, oh my _God,_” and Tim’s voice is _wrecked_ with that look on Baby Bat, so sensual, so erotic, and the words break from him in Arabic so it can go right to _heart_. _“How beautiful you are when you give yourself to me.”_

Dami’s thigh and knees flex when he moves, just rocking to test the sensations, biting down on the inside of his cheek when the spot inside his body flares to life as the head of Tim’s cock brushes against it.

“_Azizy, you’ve taken me so deep, I am undone,_” fingers gently massaging the niche of his hips, and still he grips Tim’s forearms, holding on, squeezing once before he moves with more assurance, more _grace_. The last time he had allowed this had been with Colin—a lifetime ago it seems now that he is here.

Tim’s eyes are a combination of hot and soft when red suffuses Dami’s face and chest, when he bites his lip but noises still escape, when the Arabic makes his cock _strain_ more but he keeps Tim’s forearms held to deny the temptation to _touch_. He is so _close_ to losing himself as it is.

_“This is contentment,” _he whispers back and rises, eyes fluttering when he falls back down and the friction, the _wetness_, all so perfect in a way he could not ever remember this being before.

And as he wants, Tim watches, cannot take his eyes away, can do nothing but let Dami find the right rhythm, to release his forearms and lean back, put his body on display while he _moves_. The sinful shift of sinews and skin, the tight _heat_ of Dami’s body, the _gift_ given so freely and without reservation—

Tim moves his hips gently, tentatively, trying to avoid too much, too fast, but he has to change his grip from Dami’s knees and thighs, has to hold on to _something_ so he doesn’t lose himself in the moment. The sweet, soft pleasure is growing, gaining momentum with every cry, every shift of hips and knees, winding them both up so _tightly_.

And _God_, it’s so good, so _perfect_ that he should have insisted on this _long_ before, to have his lover within him, making his body strain for more, to be so _full_. He is hardly aware of the noises coming from deep down or the sharp jolt of his hips when he hits that spot right on; he can, however, feel the tension in Tim’s hands gripping his thighs as if he cannot make himself let go, the pressure of Tim’s hips rising to meet his, to time their motions perfectly so they _both_ strain with _more_.

And in this moment, there is only them, only Dami leaning over to brace himself on his elbows and cry his pleasure into Tim’s mouth, only Tim coaxing him, moving faster, _more_, telling Baby Bat how stunning he is when he comes, only the two of them locked together.

**

A few hours later, the holoscreen in the Perch flashes with the time, and Dami moves only slightly to fumble for the remote and hit a button to be certain the alarm doesn’t go off. He presses another of the endless kisses to the top of Tim’s head lolling on his shoulder, the older man sprawled out half on top him and breathing easier than before. His forehead is warm, not hot, and he sleeps on even with Dami’s slow movements.

The youngest goes back to his phone, surfing the usual array of reports from the Steph, Cass, and O the night before, surveying the usual drug deals, muggings, thefts, and an interesting string of possible serial art gallery vandalisms that seem to _him_ to be more a distraction for other crimes. Shortly after Tim passed out, Dami checked in with Superboy to assure Kid Flash had been seen again (tt, _fool_, you cannot save the world if you are injured as such—know your limitations), he had, and then with Grayson to be sure he, Father, and Todd had made it back to Gotham with no issues (and also perhaps to remind the eldest to set out food for Alfred the cat, also his toy mouse is in the cupboard). When the return reply requested a status update on Tim, Dami simply held the phone at arm’s length and took a picture of the two of them and sent it.

His phone pinged less than ten seconds later, a text from Todd.

_Fucking righteous, Demon. Keep Timmy’s stupid ass in bed. You know, the fun way_.

Followed by an obscene amount of emojis. Hm, seems Stephanie is rubbing off on him.

With a small smirk, Dami types back _one does what is effective. Twenty-three minutes of noises, Todd. What is your last count?_

Rather than wait (and assuming, considering the time of day, Todd has already spit out a mouthful of coffee) for a reply, Dami turns his phone off and sets it aside, shifting gently so he can have both arms around the sleeping Tim, and relax enough to drift off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I can see his relationship with Tim like this, the two of them not together because they snark and argue, but because they can genuinely see something in one another than it beautiful <3  
As always, thanks for reading!


	4. Night Sky: The Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> N has agreed with Hood and Red with Robin, and there's only one way to see if they can possibly have it all.  
NSFW Robinpile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titans_R_Us and Azazels were crucial to finishing this side off ;) Just, so much feels with your porn. As a side note: this is my first foursome smut, SO feel free to let me know how you feel ;)

In any other circumstances, he’d be cleaning_ up_ right now. Little dust off the hands, call in the GCPD, and hang up some bad guys from a few lamp posts. Have a good night, I’m out. Drop the mike.

As it is, Red is letting gloved hands and restraints keep him nice and _immobile_ instead.

His “_holy **fuck**_, _Batman_” is muffled by a big hand tight against his mouth, Kevlar and musk in his nose. They’d already gotten the _special_ restraints on him, fighting pretty damn _dirty_ after bringing food to his stake-out, an obvious distraction for their devious plan.

Dammit, the assholes have _no shame_. Roof tacos are _sacred_.

But the Killer Croc tested, Bat approved restraint bands are _good_ _tech_, even used on the occasional Scarecrow/Joker-toxined vigilante. He should know. He helped B make them for worst-case scenario.

Now, it’s the best/worst thing he could have ever made.

Red’s hips jerk, hard and abrupt, noises _obscene_ behind Nightwing’s gloved hand. It does nothing to dislodge the Red Hood from holding his thighs just _that much_ higher to go back for _more_. And God, _God,_ Jason’s _mouth_ there, getting him _wet_ and ready.

It’s been almost a year since he’s had this, _them_, and the hidden depths of his heart, the fractured pieces are coming back together again whether he wants it to or not. At the time, he’d ended the thing between the three of them to give Dick and Jason the chance to be _happy_ together without complications. He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was making good choices.

Maybe, just _maybe_, it’s a plan he needs to revisit.

He tenses a second before Robin steps out of the shadows, smirking. _Knowing_. At almost nineteen, Robin hits the whiteouts so those eyes can glitter in the night.

“You started early,” pushing the hood of his cape back, Robin is already removing his gauntlets by the time he kneels. And there’s a vigilante holding him all over, Robin’s bare hand at his back while the other presses the right spot in the harness to deactivate the traps and let it fall harmlessly away. Utility belt is next.

These three have gotten to know him just a little too well—taking away his contingencies.

Nightwing winks at Robin and slides the fingers of his free hand over the hidden catches of Red’s armor, talking against Red’s ear while Robin helps, unzipping the body suit to bare skin:

“I think, Baby Bird,” deep and dark, calmly against the side of his neck, the tone that makes him get _tight_ all over, “you’re going to be busy for the night. So, Batgirl is down a block on your bad guys, and you? You are going to be very, _very_ good for us. Aren’t you?”

Skin is hitting the cool air—summer into fall—and he shivers into the hands holding him, breathing hard through his nose while his body heats, _throbs_ with hands and mouths and bare skin in the night.

Hood’s tongue stabs inside him, and without conscious thought, his thighs tighten, caught in the grip of the dangerous vigilante. With his tights caught around his booted ankles, all he can do is make noises into N’s glove while his lower body is held hoisted higher, the mouth going _further_.

When he and Robin (_who is going to get the ass-chewing **of the year** for plotting this_) talked about the possibility of…well, of the fact N and Hood still _wanted_ him, didn’t chose to let him go (and had regrets about letting him out, not to mention how _pissed_ they apparently are since Robin spilled the truth behind his decision—_dammit_), and maybe try to let them in—Red had certain _expectations_. Maybe all of them actually _talking_ about it outside the capes, or maybe pizza and a movie night with just the four of them, being comfortable and slowly starting to make-out or something? Maybe setting up ground rules about how this whatever might work. He didn’t expect to be plotted _against_ (because, well, let’s face it: of the four of them, _he’s_ usually the man with the nefarious plans) by the three of them right when _he’s in the middle of a case_.

Robin’s mouth on his chest drives his thoughts back down under the haze of arousal, wet and warm, sucking him, marking him, making a claim on him. Just like Hood eating him, opening him wide to make his own claim of ownership. With his armor gone, N is at the base of his throat to make his marks as well; the kiss of teeth on _that spot_ makes Red even harder, _ready_ for _something_ to happen before he goes _insane_.

His hands twist uselessly against the restraints, wrists trying to pull apart so he can get one of them, _all of them _under his hands, so he can take control—

His gauntlets have been deactivated no matter how much he twists.

One of the hands holding his thighs off the ground leaves, moves under him to grip his bound wrists and _pull_.

Hood leans back from sucking at his rim, eyes deep, dark blue as he raises his head, licking a trail up and over his balls, right to the base of his hard cock before he pulls back.

“Nuh-uh Baby Bird,” another tug on his wrists in Hood’s grip, pulling his arms, shoving his shoulders harder against the hard front of N’s chest, “that’s a _bad_ Robin.” 

His chest stutters, the noise muffled against N’s palm part groan, part whine, but his wrists and hands stop twisting, his body growing lax in their hold. In this position, his advantage is to give in (and _yes,_ God _yes_, he wants to, wants to more than he can ever _remember_ wanting to in the past). Hood dives back down and shoves his tongue inside as far as can; Robin licks over his exposed nipple, humming before he latches on and _sucks_.

N raises his head enough to bite into the finger of his glove and pull it off. He uses his hold on Red’s mouth to tilt the younger Bat’s gaze back, to meeting the heat in his eyes.

“Don’t make us get _rough_ with you, Red.” And the edge to his voice, the strength in his hold is all _please, make us get **rough**_._ Make us take you over and over until you can’t move, until you can’t think, until you belong to all of us_…

“He will be _compliant_, won’t you, _habibi_?” Robin pulls off, eyes rolling up his panting chest, bare hand skimming down his body, over his scars, to cup his hard cock lightly in a warm palm, circling the base. “You will allow us to take _care_ of things for once, yes?”

He looks down slightly, trying to get a full breath, trying to make sure he burns every moment in his _memory_. The noise of agreement vibrates through his body, makes the slow, dirty smirk take over Robin’s face while his eyes glitter, outlined by the domino.

“_Fuck, _‘Wing,” Hood comes up for air, sucks and laps at his balls, hands grip into the meat of his thighs _tighter_, and the bruises are going to be such a good reminder. “Missed the _shit_ outta this. _Fuck_ he’s so good on my tongue. Always good, Timmy. Just how I _like_ it.”

Mouth against his ear, N’s breath heats, “see how much he _missed_ you? Missed _this_?”

“And those _noises_,” Hood’s eyes get _darker, _“when y’ can’t hold back no more. Aw, _fuck_.”

“The way you tighten when you’re so _close_ to coming,” N fills in, follows with a _bite_.

“The way y’ _move_ on my cock, Baby Bird,” Hood grins and leans down, tonguing his balls and moving back up. “Like it’s the best ride y’ ever _had_, yeah?”

“The way you fill me up when it’s your turn, take me nice and deep,” and N is sucking him, all their mouths moving wet and _oh…oh God, he’s going to **die**_.

“Always gotta have a plan, Baby Bird,” Hood bites into the meat of his inner thigh, right on that sensitive _spot_. “Now we gotta plan just for _you_, don’t we Rob?”

And Robin sinks his teeth into the scar along the last rib, causing the writhing body to jerk, _tighten_. N’s glove barely muffles the cry, drawing Hood and N to _take note_. Those eyes are half-lidded, panting breath through his nose.

“I believe we have multiple _contingencies_, Hood,” and Robin’s tongue laves the spot again. “Ones that will be…mutually satisfying.” Those eyes roll up to meet Hood’s over the span of muscle and skin, his smirk just the right side of _dirty_ for the Red Hood. As it is, he’s the one that enjoys the _tease_, drawing it _out_ as far as he can, so it’s just a _taste_ he offers the youngest when he lowers his head and runs his tongue between Robin’s fingers on Red’s cock, gets close enough to _suck_.

Robin and the Red Hood hold one another’s gazes while Robin grazes the jut of hip with his teeth, and Hood mouths the soft curve of the head to the shaft.

Red groans against N’s hand, eyes all for the show while their hands continue to move over him, Kevlar and leather over skin from the parts that haven’t yet made it out of the nighttime wear.

N tilts him slightly higher so he can see Robin gripping him, Hood tonguing him, finally takes him _in_.

He keens, drawing their gazes to his bare, flushed face, pupils blown wide, he strains forward against N’s hold for approximately five seconds before he’s drawn back, the grip bruising, encompassing.

“You get to _watch_ while we _fuck_ you, Tim,” and it’s the deep darkness, an edge of feral to N’s nature, the words growled against his throat. “You’re going to let us take you until you can’t _move_, until we’ve marked every inch of you.”

Robin leans up, tightens at the base of his cock, and joins Hood, both of them mouth at him at the same time, licking him, _sucking_ at him, making him jerk and writhe caught up in their hands.

And _oh God_, it’s so good. _Too much_, too much to make his brain overload, to make his body wind so _tight_; all he can do is let his eyes roll in the back of his head when Robin’s hand slides from the base of his cock and behind his balls, start fingering him open with slick he probably kept in his utility belt and saliva from Hood’s obsession to _eat ass_, get him ready to be _taken_ just like N promised.

And, yes, God, _please_. _Please_. As long as Robin is on board, as long N and Hood are good with this, as long as there is _no pain_, he’ll take them, _all of them_, as his. He’ll let himself be owned and own in return (because _this_, this is more than he could have imagined, for all of them to want to _keep_ him).

If they would let him out of the damn restraints—!

One becomes two, opening him up (and he’s so _wet_ from Hood’s mouth and enthusiastic tongue, shaking when he felt the older man moan against him, moan _inside_ him).

He’s lost in the motions, of Hood’s mouth mapping out his cock with hands holding him closer for _more._ Robin traces the sensitive spot on his hip and the top of his thigh with his lips and teeth while he preps. N panting against his shoulders, sucking and biting marks into his throat and collar bone so he’ll feel it, _see it_ for days and _know_ this really happened. He has enough brain power to turn slightly, press his forehead and nose into N’s neck and make more noises against his hand. His hips work against Hood and Robin’s hands, rhythmic movement he can manage, telling them with his body what he can’t with his mouth:

_Yes._

_Please God. I **need**_—

And he does, needs them with such force, such _pain_, it’s frightening. If this is real, there wouldn’t be any walking away this time. There could no longer be a possibility of leaving Gotham behind—he’d come back, he’d _always_ come back for—_to_ them.

All three of them.

It would also mean…it would _mean_—he could finally put faith into the Bats, he would be able to believe, _without reservations_, that they wouldn’t abandon him again. After the last few years of trying to make himself let go of those heavy, hurtful doubts, of never being able to just _let_ himself have complete conviction—

With _this_, he could finally let _go_.

He could call himself a Bat again—and _mean_ it.

Red moves, nuzzling his nose against N’s thumping pulse, and the oldest leans back to look at him, mouth red and wet from his attentions to available skin.

Against the glove, all he can try to say is, “_please, Dick. **Please**.”_

N’s eyes are dark and hungry with heat and _want_, “no talking, no yelling—or I’m gagging you. Understand?”

Red blinks up at him and nods slightly, as much as N’s grip will allow.

But Nightwing doesn’t give him any opportunity, just fits his mouth over Red’s, holding his jaw to keep him still, and it’s _perfect_, that mouth pressed against his again, working him in just the right way, catching his slight noises (until they manage to make him _louder_—like some kind of _game_).

And if there’s anyone that should have a _how to kiss your partner unable to have a thought_ class, N would be _leading_ it because he knows how to read body language down to the muscle twitch, knows how to read _slow down_, _more_, _suck_, and all those in between. He tastes like coffee and something heady as he eats at Red’s mouth, his chest vibrating in a low purr against the back of those bare shoulders.

He’s so lost in the feel, the familiarity, the _want_ (struck again by the years of old desires and the newest _needs_) that he doesn’t realize Hood is lowering his thighs, something soft spread under him on the roof top, that the other two are watching with half-mast eyes as N’s grip on him shifts since he’s no longer held up between the three of them. Hood is getting the boots and tights off. Red adjusts arms to be comfortable (because _really_, the number of times _all_ the Robins have been strung up with bound arms? After a while you learn to bend the elbows just right to make it fine), and Hood leans over his bared body to take over.

The hint of cigarettes and chewing gun, of the Red Hood’s _mouth_ on his, and _God, he missed them_. He’d come to grips with the bittersweet _ache _of it, suppressing it because, at the time, he was doing the right _thing. _Robin has a grip on his heart, his body, his mind, but the pull is no less powerful than the one these two have always had right along with him. It never would have worked with Dick and Jay for so long if he hadn’t had an equal attraction, been fine with polyamory. But _Robin_, this smart ass, calm and cool one minute then hot and heavy the next—it’s the way Baby Bat tackled everything, with all-or-nothing, always gave his whole _heart_. And _dammit_, he’d fallen so _hard_. Robin moved right up into the same space

“Gonna do _terrible_ things to you, Baby Bird.” Hood breathes into his mouth while he pants, looks up into those _eyes_ (_Jason, you were **my** Robin_). “Gonna make you ours, alla ours. Gonna show you where you shoulda always been.”

And Robin, breathing hard himself, watching as N and Hood completely _wreck_ his significant other with more than touch and pleasure, but with their _truths_, and it makes him hotter, more heat in his veins than he could have planned for, finally shifts his fingers from preparation to—

Hood’s mouth catches Red abrupt cry, all their hands cradling him while he arches in pleasure, while he gets that much _harder_ from Robin’s fingers on his spot, making small circles.

N manages to lick down Red’s ribs, sucks at his hips while Hood keeps his mouth busy. He pauses when Robin uses his free hand to rest lightly at the back of N’s neck, finger the hidden catch.

And those eyes roll up, meet Robin’s. What could have been awkward, _uncomfortable_ even, is overlaid with the moment. When the three of them met to plan this outing, on how to bring Red _back_, on how the three of them could get him to accept this new arrangement, he had been uncomfortable for more than one reason. He would have to give up the intimacies between the two of them, to _share,_ but he also agreed to attempt these intimacies with N and Hood. Even while he agreed, Robin had reservations on whether or not he _could_—

Yet with them, watching and participating, with skin under his hands and mouth, everything in him is pulled toward Nightwing and the Red Hood as strongly as it gravitates toward Red.

Robin finds himself _wanting_, his hands itching to explore the bodies he has seen numerous times changing out of suits in the Cave to leave the personas behind for the night; the bodies he’s seen bleeding and torn and broken from fighting the good fight; the bodies he’s held and been held against, had saved and been saved by.

Robin did not expect their want, their _need_ to affect him this way, but looking at N’s dark eyes, heat making them gleam in the dim street light, he cannot help but desire this, _them_, for his own.

He and Red have more in common than he initially realized.

And the epiphany, of how _hard_ his cock is after watching Hood suck at his fingers and N’s agile mouth make _marks_, marks that could also be made on _him_, the epiphany makes him shudder.

Low enough to keep it from Red and Hood, N leans in close enough to keep the words between them, “it’s okay, Dami. Whatever you feel is okay. Good or bad, just tell me what you _need_.”

And Robin’s chest hitches in a breath, at the obvious _out_ N is handing him—if this is too much…or not enough. If he says the words, the two of them would leave him and Red on this roof alone to finish what has been started. They would go without question, without hesitation to assure his comfort. If he decides he cannot do _this_, the two would not hold it against him, would respect his wishes, and _that_ alone—

Robin breathes, and even though he justified all this to himself as being for the good of all four of them (but more for Tim, _habibi_, for Jason, for Richard—their suffering is unacceptable, not when he can do something about it) in some fashion; for _himself_, he did not anticipate seeing things clearly as Tim obviously saw them. These two in _need_, their power, their grace, their _hearts_. And he lets himself get a little lost in N’s gaze, leaning closer, allowing himself to let the possibility take root (and it’s an _odd_ thing, how similar this is to allowing himself to consider Red Robin/Tim Drake as something _more_).

Because this man is the one that refused to give up on him—regardless of his sins, his transgressions. The man that took him and taught him, that was the corner stone in giving him some kind of _humanity_.

A man that never saw him as a burden.

A man that forgave him for being a murderer.

A man this is looking at him with heat and anticipation.

A man that wants his as well.

It’s Damian, not Robin, who whispers harshly, “_Richard_.”

“Tell me, Dami,” and it’s so _deep_ and dark (_his_ Batman), full of anticipation, of _promise_. “Tell me I can _touch_ you.”

And for N, who remembers the young boy full of rage, a boy that _needed_ in a similar fashion to the way N once _needed_, he now sees a young man; a young man that also sacrificed for the greater good. A young man in his prime, a young man with grace and power, a young man that will stand with them against all the odds, against the worst the world has to throw at them.

Someone that would take a fatal blow without hesitating.

He sees the needs and wants in Robin, just as clearly as he sees them in Hood, in Red. Those needs and wants echo, make his body tingle, his heart speed up for the possibility he could be included in those needs.

“Yes,” the younger hisses, “Yes, I _want_—“

“_Dami_,” and he leans up just enough—

The first touch is tentative but only _just_.

Robin’s eyes slide closed, and he opens himself up for N, gives himself _over_.

Hood pulls back enough to let Red get a breath, shifting to line himself up, to get _ready_. The anticipation tingles at the base of his spine, in his cock; the _need_ for Baby Bird, the stark hungers that were always somewhere buried in the Red Hood. Giving this up, giving up the mastermind, the little _asshole_ what had a tendency to get himself hurt protecting everyone else, the loveable pain in the left _nut_ that _is_ Tim Drake, almost broken them—him and Dickie. At the time, they just _assumed_ Timmy needed a break, a breather, and they were gonna let it ride, see when he _could_ come back to them. But, _fuck_, if they knew _then_ what they knew _now_—shit would have gone down different.

A hell of a lot actually.

“Jason—“ Red manages to moan against his mouth, bound arms _straining_.

“Stupid, Baby Bird,” the Red Hood fills in, nosing Red’s face to the side, to slide his tongue up his neck, “goddamned _stupid_ t’ think we’d ever _not_ want you, we’d be _fine_ without you or some shit.”

Red gasps, catching the words, the sight of N’s hand against the back of Robin’s neck, turning him for _deeper_ and _more_.

“I…_Jason_—“

Hood’s big hand clamps on his mouth, quieting him again. “naw. Ain’t the time, Timmy. Finally got ya right where we need ya to be, yeah?” And Hood sucks at the spot on his neck N hadn’t made it to yet, his hips moving forward, twitching, rubbing himself right where he wants to be—deep in _warm_ and _perfect_. Absently, Hood widens his stance to spread Red’s knees further apart. “Ya’ just gonna be a good Robin, ain’t cha? Gonna let us _have_, you feel me? Let us take what we _need_, give back what cha need from us?”

Red makes a noise, vibrates through Hood’s glove, goes right to his hard cock. They’ve already got Red to the point of no return, yeah? He ain’t even _trying_ to hold back now, not with alla ‘em there for him.

And it’s right where they need him to be, ain’t it? Nothing between them, no secrets, no hiding anymore.

He darts a look over at N and Rob, N helping Rob out of his hooded cape and then the tunic, hands and mouth moving over Baby Bat whiles he _does it_. With the whiteouts outta the way, he can see the heat building more intense in both of them with every touch, every gasp, every writhe of muscle and sinew, feels his own hard cock leaking while he watches Rob’s hips moving absently, head thrown back under the talent of N’s mouth and hands, biting his lip hard and still can’t hold it in.

S’fine, Baby Bat, _get it_ because Hood knows, he _knows_ just what Big Wing can do when _properly motivated_ and alla that effort is focused on Rob, giving him just what he _needs_, breaking the youngest outta his usual cool and collected to arch into _touch_ with his own kinda want.

And ain’t it just the right side of perfect, this? Alla them are gonna get just what they _need_ tonight, yeah?

Hood smiles, slow and dirty, and using the hand over Red’s mouth, he directs that gaze to the show, “ain’t that a nice sight, Baby Bird,” said low against his jugular. “Seeing ‘m? Getting each other nice and ready for ya, working themselves _out_ ‘cause they got it so _bad_.”

And it’s _fucking unfair_ because Hood doesn’t let up, doesn’t give him a chance to do anything but moan when his mouth does those _amazing_ things and when he looks over, Robin stands, flushed and panting, muscles trembling, while N works his armored tights over his hips—

To swallow him down to the base, making Robin almost _scream_ with it, folding over N’s broad shoulders, mouth open to pant.

A good blow job never fails to make Robin keen, to lose himself in warm and _wet_, but N is working him like it’s the _mission_—to give every ounce of skill and concentration into sucking, licking, taking Robin in _deep_, making noises low in his chest, purring with the shaky vigilante far gone enough to be draped over him.

“Ri—Richard…” and Robin gives up the fight, fists tight, “_Dick_…you must—you must _stop_. I’m close—“ but his body protests, wants _more_.

N responds by gripping the back of Robin’s thighs, straightening up to lift the younger vigilante off the ground just a few inches, working his throat while he holds Robin up with his strength alone.

He lifts his head just enough to catch Red and Hood watching them with hot eyes.

Under Hood’s glove, Red’s chanting _‘Come, Dami. Come for him.’_

Hood, however, grins at the debauched Robin, licking his lips at the soft _noises_, but he feels _charitable_ tonight, feels merciful. “Big Wing, much as I wanna see you suckin’ Baby Bat’s brains out through his cock—it’s gonna haveta wait ‘til tamarrow night. We got a _plan_, you feel me?”

N makes a disgruntled noise, but obligingly puts Robin back on his feet and pulls off, holding on to the back of his thighs to keep the youngest of them on his feet until his knees work again, and N just tilts his head back enough, his smile slow at the flushed, panting Robin—so normally collected—eyes dazed with thrum in every nerve ending.

Red’s eyes go wide when N pushes Robin to his knees and bends him over. Robin braces himself on his elbows, still riding the waves of pleasure, biting into the skin of his wrist at the first touch of fingers—

Robin’s eyes roll up, dark with arousal and highlighted by the domino; he meets Red’s hot gaze as N’s fingers stretch him _perfectly_, how he likes it the most (and _how_ N knew is a mystery for another night since Robin’s ability to think clearly is becoming more and more _difficult_), and mouths at the base of his spine, teeth over the right spots.

A noise is drawn up through his whole body, his chest stuttering and Red’s gaze gets more _intense_.

“Does this please you, _habibi_?” He manages, talking low on another noise, “does this make you _want_?”

He earns another muffled noise, putting him ahead of Todd and forcing a grin just as N finds—

Robin’s throaty call is followed by N’s low, dark laughter.

“Found it, Dami,” N’s dark tone punctuated with another press, another slick finger, “I’m going to make _damn sure_ you’re ready, so ready for him. I’m going to make you come _so close_.”

“N—_ Dick_,” and Robin’s mouth opens as he pants, making his hand go back to grip N’s hip behind him instead of fisting himself, to heighten this _moment_ when everything is building tighter and tighter.

“I want to see you _come_ so hard,” is a statement of _fact_, insinuating the lengths N would go to just to _get it_. “On his cock, in my mouth, in Jay’s ass, I want to _see_ it, Dami. All of it. More than that even.”

And a fast, barely comprehensive string of Arabic, Robin’s senses overloaded, but N catches, “all of it,” “take and be taken,” and “I cannot possess more _desire_.”

Nightwing thrusts his fingers deeper, hitting that spot again in response, “Ah, there. You like this?” And N flicks his spot, mouth moving along Robin’s side, hot breath, lips and tongue, the kiss of teeth again, “tell me, Dami. Tell me how I can make you feel good.”

Robin’s eyes slide closed for a moment, so he can make the _attempt_ at gathering thoughts in a linear progression, “Dick, let me…let me—“ and his mouth is already watering for the image.

“Whatever you _need_,” is N’s dark reply, a last, slow circle before he pulls his fingers free.

Robin’s thighs tremble slightly when he sits up on his knees, turns to find the already worked catch on the uniform, draws the top half down to reveal skin. N takes advantage, sliding their mouths together again while his chest and arms are bare to the night, helping shove the suit down to his hips while he fucks his tongue in Robin’s mouth. It’s second nature to pull the younger man against him, pressing their bare skin together so he can lick, bite, _take_, so he can breathe against Robin’s ear, to say, to _growl_, the stark _truth_—

“You were mine, _first_, Dami. _My_ Robin.”

And it has Robin so _close_, so very _close_ to coming that he has to fist himself between them, tighten around the base of his straining cock, his other hand gripping N’s shoulder to ground himself because he’s so wound _tight_.

“Yes,” he pants without reservation, “_yes_.”

“I _needed_ you,” N licks just below his ear, the tender spot on Robin’s throat, “I still _do_.”

“Dick,” and Robin’s eyes slide closed, the words going right to the depths of him, “I needed you as—as well. More than I have ever needed _anyone_. I did not realize it…at the time…but I will _always_ need _you_.”

“You have me, Dami. You always have me, and now you have _us_, all of us.”

And Robin rattles off something in Arabic again, so full of _everything_ he forgets, pants out broken phrases, but N cuts him off, kissing him again, more gentle than before, pouring more than just sex and arousal. Robin’s hands move, one to grip N’s hip to hold them together, pressing his erection into N’s through the uniform, the other around N’s broad shoulders, to keep himself right in _this_ moment.

Red’s mouth is dry at the sight of them, of Robin giving _in_, allowing himself to be _taken_, to be given what he _needs_. Any vestiges of reservations are gone watching them while Hood works his body to incredible heights, rubs the thick erection against him, causing him to arch, to moan against the hand still over his mouth.

“Killin’ me here, yous two,” Hood grins, his eyes sparkling blue, “N, why don’t cha bring Rob _right_ _here_ t’ me. Lemme make sure our birds get taken _care_ _of_.”

At that, the two pull back, direct their gazes at Hood and Red still trapped under his body, writhing.

“J—Jason,” Robin tries, but the thought cuts off when N thumbs his tight nipples and his smile is white against the night.

“Good plan, Jay. I think we’ve teased Red enough for the moment.”

Robin nods in agreement, biting his lip, but N has him in a firm hold regardless of his shaky legs, mostly lifting him. Hood moves his hand, takes one last taste of Red’s mouth before he straightens up, helps N get Rob into place, straddling Baby Bird.

Hood tosses his gloves off and gets his hands where they need to be, palming the side of Rob’s neck to turn his face around and take that mouth, replace N’s taste with his and Red’s, giving Baby Bat no chance to come down even a little. He wants to keep the momentum, to make Baby Bat stay right on the knife’s _edge_. And he takes alla noises down into his chest, makes the kiss just this side of _dirty_.

And now that he _knows_ how much Rob has a _need_ of his own, well, ain’t it just coincidence Hood has just the right kind of inclination to give it?

N moves behind him, works the body suit down Hood’s back, pulling it down so he can free his arms, let him go back to running a hand over the front of Rob’s body, finding the sensitive spots to make the younger man arch into his touch while Hood uses every technique he’s _got_. His tongue wraps around Robin’s, licking him, tasting all of him without holding back, making it _deep_ and _wet_ and _perfect_.

Hood moans in Robin’s mouth when N palms his throbbing cock, that mouth on the side of his throat.

And he likes Robin panting in his mouth, eyes half-mast, hands clenching. God, he’s _pretty_ like this. Demon all wound up for them, fulla the right kind of _need_ what fits perfectly in line, and Hood gives him alla it, through touch and taste; his hips work cause right there is Baby Bird’s hard cock, shiny and wet, and he grinds himself and Red against Robin’s ass, reaching around to palm him with N, just this side of perfect.

Pulling off his mouth, Hood uses a hand on Robin’s jaw, turn him, thumb rubbing circles right at the hinge before slipping over to push in the youngest’s mouth, give him time to stretch that neck out under his tongue and teeth.

“Fuck, so _good_ like this, Dami,” Hood breathes against his neck before he _bites_. “Pretty Bird feels _righteous_.”

Robin throws his head back over Hood’s shoulder, huffing noises out against his thumb.

“An’ I’ma _like_ taking you in, alla way, let you _fuck_ me, let you fill me up, baby. Once Timmy gets _the fucking picture _here, you and me, we’re gonna have some _time_. Dickie doesn’t get ta just have ya ta himself, you feel me?”

Robin’s chest stutters, the noise coming out of him higher-pitched, his cock getting hard, _throbbing _under their hands.

“I’ma show you how _nice_ and _easy_ I can ride ya, how deep I can take ya in. Then, when yer just ‘bout ready ta come, ya can turn me right the fuck over and give it t’ me _hard_ and _fast_, make me come on ya cock, Baby Bat. Yeah, you’d like that. Fuck me _deep_ while we watch Timmy and Dickie going the rounds right next t’ us.”

Robin’s hand fist at his thighs, hips working.

N laughs, low and dirty, threads a hand through Hood’s short hair, tugs him off Robin’s throat, earning an irritated noise, sliding their mouths together.

Between the exchange of tongue, Hood is still running his mouth, “but, _Dickie_, mmph, lookit how good he’s bein’ for us.”

“He is,” N agrees, “and we’re killing them, you _tease_.”

Hood just grins, wide and white before diving back to lick into N’s mouth before pulling back, leaning to press kisses to Robin’s jugular.

“S’alright. C’mon Rob, like I said atcha, we got _time_. Let’s get with the main attraction, yeah?”

Robin finally releases his thumb with a moan, turning, flushed, eyes glittering, outlined by his domino, “I will— I want _all_ of it, Jason. I will hold you to it, _all_ of it.”

“Oh, I _hope_ the fuck so, Baby Bat. Gonna feel so good in me,” and Hood slides his cock down, rubbing the head over Red’s wet, stretched opening, biting his lip at _this_, at all of this—

N moves, all sinew and grace, his suit still half on, crawling up Red’s body while Robin shifts his hips, lines himself up and—

N’s mouth is on Red’s when Hood sinks inside him _to the hilt_ while Robin sinks down on him, taking him inside tight, wet, _heat_—

His body jackknifes, legs twitching hard, shoving himself up inside Robin and impaling himself on Hood’s hard cock. N is there to just swallows his cries down as Hood lays his forehead on Robin’s shoulder, panting, an arm around the younger vigilante while he _throbs_ being inside Baby Bird again, and it’s _so fucking good_. He absently runs his hands over Robin’s front while giving Red time to adjust, lightly palming Robin’s aching erection.

He feels the tremble go through Robin’s thighs and lifts his head to run his tongue over the pulsing jugular, clamps down to _suck_.

Robin throws a hand up, grips the back of Jason’s neck to press him closer, writhing, and so _full_—

“He feels so good in you, don’t he, Pretty Bird?” Is moaned against his ear, “just the right kinda fit.”

Hood presses his chest into Robin’s back, holding them together, supporting the trembling bird, stroking him slow and lose, just a tease. His free hand finds purchase on Robin’s hip so they can move together when it’s time and make Red _scream_.

“Yes,” Robin pants out, eyes fluttering closed, “yes, _habibi_…fills me to the breaking point,” and he swivels his hips just slightly, just enough to make his chest stutter, turning just so— “I would… I want to _know_ how full you could make me. _Jason_, I want to find this out—“

Hood latches on, sliding their mouths together, licking in to taste as N finally lets up on Red a little.

“So good, Timmy,” N finally breathes in his mouth, “you needed this… I think we all do.”

“Dick…_I_—“

But Dick shudders and cuts him off, pressing his mouth back, licking over Tim’s lips, giving everyone time to adjust before the next part starts.

“You gave up a piece of your _heart_, Timmy,” is an admonishment between tongue and pressure, “you didn’t _talk_ to us about what was best _for us_.” And N pulls back enough to make sure he’s _getting through_. “You don’t get to be the only one that makes decisions when all of us are affected.”

And, _yes_, yes he’d pretty much done just that—and it’s right on the tip of his tongue to promise, to _mean it_, to apologize since he _hadn’t_, but N just leans in to press gentle kisses to his bruised throat, making soft sounds in the depths of his chest. But Red just leans enough to put his face against N’s neck, to nose at the soft skin right behind his ear, shut his eyes _tight_.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I’m _sorry_ I hurt you, both of you.”

The bare chest against his heaves in a sigh, but his voice is stern, almost angry, “make it up to me, Tim.”

And he _means_ it when he says “_anything_.”

N just leans up to look at him head-on, “don’t do it again. Don’t do this to us _ever again_.”

Hood hears it in and out, easing up on Robin’s mouth just slightly, both thumbs working—one on Robin’s jaw and the other in the sweet niche of his hip.

“Move with me, Pretty Bird. Need t’ see ya make y’self feel good on Timmy’s cock. Wanna hear those _noises_ again.”

“_Mahbub qiada ‘ana_.” Robin manages, _Lead me_.

And Hood keeps them pressed together, back-to-chest, while he makes a line of sensual kisses up the span of Baby Bat’s throat, “_sawf 'utabie 'aydaan ‘ant eind alaihtiaj ,_” is breathed in Robin’s ear (_“I will also follow you”_).

Robin turns just enough to catch Hood’s eyes, blinking at the admission, of being full, of being included, of his body telling him to _move_, and his mind telling him that perhaps—perhaps Hood _means_ those words.

As if reading his mind, the Red Hood comes back to slide their mouths together again, no teasing or play, but hard and wet and _deep_.

He doesn’t let up, just tightens the hand on Robin’s hip and starts the two of them on a torturously slow rhythm.

Red’s eyes roll back, his thighs tightening around Hood’s waist when the two, on him and in him, start to _move_.

N glances back, a satisfied smile taking over. Well, the possible issues he foresaw between Robin and the Red Hood have apparently been…_handled_.

He leans up, shoves his suit the rest of the way down below his ass, and the reinforced jock is just gone. “Your call, Timmy.” And Red’s eyes are glazed over, mouth hanging open, being jarred by Hood’s thrusts, when he seems to realize N is talking to him. “I’m either going to hold you down or fuck your mouth, so what do you want to be gagged with?”

“Like—ah, _God! Jay, **fuck**_—like that’s even a—a question?” Red tightens his legs around the Red Hood’s waist, arching his body, leveraging enough to work up _deeper_ into Robin’s warmth, earning the _right_ kind of keen with it, and hands bracing his sides when he works back down to be filled _up_, make Hood bite out a noise against Robin’s jugular.

And they let him _work them_.

Robin lets his head loll back on the Red Hood’s broad shoulder, face turned into his throat, and Hood braces his knees to work with Red’s rhythm with Baby Bat under his hands.

Finally with some control (thank _fuck_), Red’s eyes darken at N, and his pink tongue comes out, wets his lips.

“I want you to be able to see them,” N orders in a low growl, almost a rolling purr.

Red doesn’t look away from N, just thrusts harder, fucks up into Robin, and the youngest twitches, eyes rolling back when Red finds _that spot_.

“Get the _fuck _over here and let me suck you. _Now_.”

And no, there’s no possible way N can resist _that_ call—panting, cupping the back of Red’s neck—and the half-strangled sound caught in his chest. Warm and _wet_, taking him in deep, making noises around his hard cock when Hood’s hips pump at the perfect angle, meeting Red’s thrusts, or in tandem with Robin when the younger bird shoves himself down abruptly.

N just leans over to brace on hand on the roof, moaning as he moves, half his brain watching the blinking red lights around them (because, well, _Bats_) to assure no threat would catch them unaware, while the other half is lost in this moment: Hood and Robin and Red and him, right where they need to be.

And the rhythm drives on, the heat rising, muscles twitching, hips moving, the sounds of pleasure bordering on _pain_, skin on skin bringing them all closer to the brink.

Red’s eyes go from N’s pained face, the grip tight on the back of his neck, to Robin writhing, working his hips to meet Red’s thrusts while he half-lies on Hood and moans without reservation, to Hood licking up Robin’s neck and rolling his hips in just the _perfect_ way to make Red moan those unconscious _noises_ right against the tip of N’s cock in the back of his throat.

Robin has raked lines bloody lines in his own thighs, bitten his lip raw, gripped at Hood behind him to _hold back_. N seems as suddenly possessive as Hood, taking his capitulation for what it precisely _is_—the opportunity to _take_, _give_, and _own_. N reaches out without leaving Red’s hot mouth, pulling Robin forward enough to mouth at his neck, lead up to his mouth and _take_, run a bare hand over the underside of his throbbing cock, a ghost of a touch. Those blue eyes watch every reaction, every twitch, and Robin feels as though N is memorizing every sensitive spot on his body. This _feeling_, being owned and owning, slides right into the base of his spine and curls around to settle. When Hood draws him back, he goes hungry for _more_ of this intimacy, this _carnal_ act. For one that must hold himself _back_ at all times, this release, allowing himself to _let go_ is just as addicting as the raw and furious pleasure.

Hood, who’d had a pique of _interest_ when N brought up the _maybe we coulds_, dives right back in, taking Baby Bat’s mouth, eyes sliding over to N’s while he _does it_. His hips stutter a beat when Robin makes a noise in his mouth, and he thumbs those tight nipples to earn another, but N groans deep in his chest watching them work themselves on Red, work each other.

And like a signal is thrown, Hood grips Red around the back _tight_, fucking up hard, holding Baby Bird finally still. He presses Rob down with the other hand and laughs quietly as he starts essentially pounding into Red hard enough to drive him right against Baby Bat’s perfect _spot_.

“Oh _fuck_,” Hood grits out, listening to the strangled screams around N’s hard cock. “_Fuck, _baby…m’ gonna make him fill ya up _nice_. Give ya what ya _need_.”

Eye rolling back, Robin makes a noise of affirmation because he can’t _think_, he’s so _close_—

Red can only tighten his legs a little, the hard thrusts, the tight warmth, the slightly salty weight against his tongue all bringing him to the _breaking point_. He can’t focus on his arms going numb or the hard surface digging into his shoulders, all he can do is whimper against it all.

“C’mon, Timmy,” N’s voice dark and shaky, so _hard_ and close himself.

Robin beats him to it, tightening, shuddering against Hood’s hold, and the older Bat eats his cries right down for safekeeping. He only needs to give Red a few quick more thrusts before Baby Bird gets just the right kinda _tight_ when he comes so sweetly, just what Hood needs to bury himself _deep_ and let go while he fucks his tongue in Rob’s panting mouth.

N almost collapses when Red sucks him dry, his low, growling made into the roof while he braces himself on one elbow, driving his cock _deep_ in Red’s throat as he comes.

And after all _that_, the three start to shakily extract themselves from the center. Hood tries to take care of them both, pulling slowly out, one hand gently rubbing Red’s shaky thigh while he winds an arm around Robin to help the lax bird ease up and off. He manages to wrangle them both over Red’s leg to lay out against the roof to let some kind of strength come back. N pulls away with a groan, sitting up to ease back; a hand on Red’s hip moves him enough that N can reach the restraints and flick them open.

Blood runs back into his wrist and hands, and he manages to flop his head over and meet N’s sated and intent gaze. Slowly, N leans back down, noses at his cheek before pressing against his mouth and sliding in to claim all over again. This time, Red can grip his shoulders, can hold _on_. And when Robin and Hood manage to come out of the _sex-coma_ enough to crawl their way up his body to get theirs, well, his hand and arms are enough to hold them, too.

**

He wakes up in the Perch, his own bed, pressed up against Dami’s bare front with a leg thrown over his thighs. When he cracks his lids, Dick is right over Dami’s shoulder, a long arm thrown carelessly over both their hips. A slight turn of the head to look over a shoulder, and Jay is breathing out against the back of his shoulders, so _different_ when he’s relaxed with sleep. They’re in lockdown, that much he remembers, but how or in which order they all got clean is still somewhat fuzzy. He may or may not have been carried the majority of the way back, being traded between the three of them after some intense cuddling and post-orgasmic, dream-like kissing.

He vaguely remembers hands soaping him up, bodies pressing against him, moaning when Dick slides inside him this time, holding him up, taking him while Dami kneeling down to suck him, and Jay grunting against the side of Dick’s neck and right into Tim’s shoulder.

_God—these three are going to kill him_

Just, yes.

But Tim uses every trick he’s ever learned as a Bat to ease out from between them, strafing around on silent feet to pull on boxers and a t-shirt from his drawer, and, _really_, it’s apparently not a secret that he collects articles of clothing; Jay has already sworn to reclaim his hoodies and sweats (never happening), Dick completely tolerates the filching of his t-shirts, and Dami has learned to suffer losing pairs of work-out shorts.

So, he throws on an amalgamation—Dick’s tshirt, Dami’s shorts, and Jay’s sweats over them.

Good enough message.

He lets them get much needed sleep and starts coffee brewing, moving with a slight hitch in his step as he collects pieces of suits all over the living room from wherever they’ve been tossed—Robin’s utility belt and boots, Hood’s jacket and holsters, those gloves with the crazily arousing fingerstripes. He makes a call in to the best place on this side of Gotham to have a _huge_ breakfast delivered (and _yes,_ foreseeable need for calories and proteins).

And it’s a crazy thing, while he stands at the counter, scooping up the pot for the first shot at caffeine, to realize he’s laid out the three mugs specially reserved for each of the men currently in his bed. Somehow, somewhere along the way of coming _back_ to the Bats, the chasm that once separated them, the fracture in those relationships, finally seemed to ease, to heal. Regardless of old choices and pain, the four of them could come together, could function just as good together as they did a part, and _this_ seemed to be some final step in a long-coming end of the road.

It feels just this side of how it was all supposed to play out.

Tim ruminates while sipping on his coffee, a stupid half-smile on his still-sleepy face.

There would be movie nights at the Manor in their old way of witty banter and wrestling, and then there would be movie nights here or at Dick and Jay’s apartment with _closeness_ and laughter and falling asleep in each other’s laps. There would be fights with baddies, as per the norm, and there would continue to be someone at his back when he needed it, and he would fight like _hell_ to have them—to keep certain _promises_. Any of the three of them would call his cell, bellowing out about the sensors in his suit sending alerts, and his own pissed off rants over speaker when he’s running like hell to get to any _one_ or _all_ of them.

It would be so much _harder_ this time, but fuck is it going to be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the title is totally a lie :D I've gotten other drabs and such from this verse that I'll have to dig out and add at some point. But also, the next piece of the crazy thing that IS the Fracture Verse is this crazy thing set in this Night Sky world, it's the Future au that is sadly not done yet. But that will probably be the next to migrate.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading babes <3


End file.
